


FLORESCENCE

by strangethetimes



Category: IT (2017), IT (2019), IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Abusive Sonia Kaspbrak, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beverly Marsh & Richie Tozier Are Best Friends, Eddie Kaspbrak & Stanley Uris Are Best Friends, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Gay Stanley Uris, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Losers Club (IT) Friendship, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Mutual Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Reddie, Richie Tozier Has a Sister, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Smoking, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2020-10-14 08:15:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 147,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20597588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangethetimes/pseuds/strangethetimes
Summary: (previously BETWEEN THE STARS)n. the act, state, or period of flowering; bloom.Eddie Kaspbrak has spent the first half of his college years trying to run from his childhood. Richie Tozier has spent the first half of his college years trying to cling onto his youth. But, when their lives crash together, they find out that they might just be what the other needed most.





	1. trashmouth macchiatos & secret spots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m not sick.”
> 
> “I know,” Richie says, there’s no hesitation, “but if that makes you sick then I am too.” His hand brushes against Eddie’s leg and something starts to make sense. The crashing and burning. He still doesn’t know what it is, but he’s sure that’s what he means. “Then again, a lot of people probably think we are. I guess we’re both fucked up.”
> 
> “I don’t feel as fucked up when I’m with you,” Eddie says, breathless when Richie looks over at him and smiles. It says all it needs to, they look at the skyline some more and the sound of the city is music.
> 
> “Maybe you just needed to find your kind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [this part's just for me to know i edited this chapter]

**SEPTEMBER**

Eddie’s skin is crawling, invisible hands creeping beneath his clothes and pulling at the seams that keep him tied together. It starts slow, almost unnoticeable, until the hands inhume themselves into his muscles and find their way to his lungs, squeezing them shut whenever he tries to breathe. He wants to push through and keep walking, a few more buildings to pass by until he reaches his own; maybe he can make it that far, maybe he can keep it under control until he’s safe inside the blank walls of his room.

As his chest starts to prickle and limbs stop listening, he knows he can’t make it a few more minutes until the panic is full-blown. Things are a burning blur, the sound of the door opening and his footsteps echoing in the hall as he tries to run fast enough. He’s not sure where he ends up, quick glimpses and soft sounds give him hints — a mess of seats, stage lights, and a distant voice. Tears start to roll down his cheeks and he can hear his pulse in his head. He collapses into a chair in the back row, hidden in shadows and swallowed by darkness.

_ Why now?  
_ _ Why here?  
_ _ What happened? _

“Because I feel like I’m not enough,” the voice, not so distant anymore, shouts. Eddie’s gaze falls on a guy, around the same age as him, standing on the stage; wild curls and cardigan slipping off his shoulders as he holds tight to the papers in his hand. He looks upset. Eddie makes himself look around, taking in the room he’s stumbled upon. It’s a drama classroom. He must be interrupting something. “Or I’m too much,” he says, softer this time. Eddie recognizes him from somewhere, but his mind races too far and too rapidly to figure out how. He pushes two fingers down onto his wrist, below his thumb, and counts the beats of his heart. It's the only trick he can remember right now.

_ Too fast. Too fast. Too fast.  
_ _ One. Two. Three. Fou— _

“Everyone says they’re proud of me for getting better, but I can’t tell if I’m really happy or just used to getting sick.” The familiar stranger lets his head drop and starts pacing around the stage, still unaware of Eddie’s presence, who’s distracted by the words and tries to start counting again (to no avail). “I want to say I’m happy, but I don’t _know,”_ he pauses, stopping at the back of the stage and staring at nothing, “I had to turn the stardust in my skin into a supernova on my own. Ask me why my smiles are ultraviolet rays and my laughter a raging flame fueled by gasoline, I’ll tell you how temperatures below zero make me shiver in more ways than physical.” He paces again, something eating at him, and Eddie loses count again. The tears still fall and he watches the man, invested.

_ Still too fast. Still too fast.  
_ _ One. Two. Thr— _

“GODDAMNIT,” he shouts. He’s frustrated, kicking something not really there and throwing the papers onto the floor. Eddie realizes it’s a script. Is this a scene from something? He doesn’t recognize it, but he thinks it’s beautiful. Perhaps it’s the voice making it seem that way. He corrects himself before his mind can wander. _ Not the voice, just the words. This stranger cannot be beautiful. _ Eddie tries to count once more. The molton fabric of the seat feels abrasive against his skin, still crawling with the hands that wring his lungs.

_ Still so fast.  
_ _ One. Tw— _

“I did it myself. I did it _alone_ because you weren’t there!” The words are harsh and angry, bitterness that could have been building up for years. Eddie wonders if he’s on the phone, maybe he just hasn’t seen the headphones. He wants to believe the words are of his own making, though not the emotions behind them. “I needed you and you weren’t there, so don’t come back into my life now and talk about how proud you are. I’m still fucked up!” The lights illuminate the freckles on his cheeks, how his brown eyes look like syrup, sweet enough to drown in. Eddie tries to count for the final time, sure of how it will end.

_ Too. Fast.  
_ _ On— _

“I don't even know why I'm here.” He sounds broken, sitting on the single chair in the middle of the stage. Eddie feels his heart start to slow down a little, but the tears still fall and his lungs still twist and turn. The invisible hands haven’t stopped pulling at his stitches. “It's not like saying any of this is going to change you.” His head lifts, looking at a person who isn’t there. Eddie swears there are tears in his eyes, ones that glisten with the same sadness as his own. Who is he supposed to be talking to? A friend, a lover, a parent? His skin goes cold when he thinks about the last possibility._ A mother. An overbearing mother. _The hands dig their fingers into his lungs again, piercing the muscle with talons for nails.

“I don’t know what to do.” Never has a voice sounded so hurt and strung with acceptance at once. “I still love you,” the stranger admits, as if there’s nothing else he can do, and shrugs. He stands after, grabbing the scattered papers from the floor and sighing. Eddie can feel his body trembling. Is it from the panic or the one who performed? He stops himself again. _ The panic. Only panic. _

“Where's that from?” Eddie asks. The guy jumps, a hand flying to his chest.

“Dear fucking shit, warn a dude, will ya? I kept the door shut for a reason.” He stops, looking at the expression on Eddie’s face and annoyance fading fast. His whole demeanor shifts. “Just some play, think a senior wrote it a while back for this class.” He _ knows _ something’s wrong with him, it’s the same look Stan gets whenever he’s around for one of these, but pretends he doesn't anyway.

“I’m sorry I barged in.” His voice is shrill and soft. His hands falter trying to grab the seat in front of him, maybe he can force himself to stand and leave. But, his legs are numb and his fingers keep slipping. It isn’t going to happen. The guy hops off stage, heading toward the back of the room. Concern grows as he gets closer, seeing the tears and disheveled hair. If he wasn’t completely sure before, he is now.

“Are you alright?” Eddie can’t answer, still trying to find his words. They keep escaping him, running across his head and slipping away just when he thinks he has a hold of them. He tries to nod, to answer in some way that seems normal, but he forces himself to laugh and bursts into tears instead. His hands hide his face and a blush starts to spread across his cheeks; he wants nothing more than to hide from the world. _ How much more embarrassing can it get? _ Everything feels so goddamn fast.

“You look like you’re gonna be sick. Hang on.” He goes digging through the bag on his shoulder. He pulls out a water bottle, ice-cold, and puts it against the back of Eddie’s neck. “Breathe,” he whispers, "I'll count." He doesn’t lose track.

_ In.  
_ Eddie can feel his chest start to listen to him, if only a bit. He holds the air for a few seconds, hardly noticing until he feels a hand on his shoulder.  
_ Out.  
_ The reminder helps. He’s always too worked up to remember any of the tricks he’s taught himself, a redundant knowledge.  
_ In.  
_ The panic still hums in his bones and the idea of focusing on something seems to be too much. Trying not to think is a lot of work. He’s never been good at it.  
_ Out.  
_ Is he dying this time? Has he always been dying? Was she right all along? Does disease really live in his DNA? Just like his dad? Is he doomed to the same fate?  
_ In.  
_ The stranger squeezes his shoulder again, recognizing that his mind must be flying. Eddie knows him, he's sure he does. He still can’t place where from. He can’t even try, not now.  
_ Out.  
_He keeps counting, still holding the cold bottle to Eddie’s neck and continuing to squeeze his shoulder when he forgets to let his breath go. They stay that way for a long time, counting and breathing together until the panic recedes; minutes or hours, neither can tell. Eddie stands at last, hoping to every god available the red in his face can’t be seen. No one but Stan has witnessed him in this vulnerable state.

“Thanks. That, uh..." His heart flutters when their eyes meet. He pushes it down. "It helped."

“Personal experience,” he admits. It’s quiet for a moment, fleeting and soft until he shakes his head. Maybe he didn’t want to say it. “I’m Richie. Tozier, if it's important.” He offers his hand and Eddie takes it. He hopes he can’t feel the way his hand quakes as he pulls it away.

“Eddie,” he says, "Kaspbrak, if it's important." Where his own smile is small and reserved, near perfect, Richie's is crooked and wide — entirely perfect.

“Do you want to grab a coffee? I order the same thing at the café so much they added it to the menu and named it after me. I’ve got an umbrella if you’re worried about the rain.” _ Oh right, _ Eddie remembers as Richie keeps talking, _the rain. _ His clothes suddenly feel soaking wet and the tears on his face might not all be from him. He hopes, at least. They start walking toward the exit after he nods and Richie grabs the umbrella from his bag. It’s neon blue and massive, patterns of yellow lines across each fold; it feels oddly appropriate, a possible visual of his personality, though Eddie's sure it's far brighter than that. The rain is cold and plentiful, hitting the earth at full speed. Most people have cleared out of the walkways, leaving them room to walk as lazily as they please. And walk lazily they do, even though Richie doesn’t care to avoid puddles; Eddie needs a distraction from the chilly dampness from the cuffs of his pants.

“So, what’s this drink of yours?”

“Just like me, of course. Strong, hot, and sweet.” He laughs, earning an eye roll and a slight shove. It’s easy to be comfortable with him. They joke the rest of the walk, ordering two Trashmouth Macchiatos — he doesn’t ask about how the nickname came to be, he can already guess — and sitting beneath the awning. Richie seems to know most of the people here, specifically the barista with fiery red hair and a smile akin to starlight who refuses to charge them. The rain keeps falling and the cups warm their hands.

“So, Richie Trashmouth Tozier,” Eddie smiles, stirring more cinnamon into the drink and watching the whipped cream slowly melt from the heat, “where do I know you from?” This time it’s not hard for him to think, he remembers exactly where he’s seen them before.

“You take Exploration of Human Emotions?” It’s not a question. Richie knows the answer too.

“Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

“That’s where!” Richie shouts, throwing his hands up in a form of victory. Eddie knows him, he sits in the far back and keeps his nose buried in a notebook — not a face easily forgotten. Conversations range from majors and classes to music and movies. Nothing about Richie comes as a surprise; a Comedic Arts major with a minor in Literature who dreams of being a comedian and is a little too invested in fictional worlds. He steers clear of regular topics, avoids giving a lot of details about his personal life, and Eddie can still figure him out. It’s not difficult for him to imagine how much trouble Richie’s gotten into, if just from talking alone. But, he stops talking for Eddie and listens attentively to miscellaneous details about himself, frequently asking questions with jokes scattered between.

The afternoon air is filled with laughter and the smell of more coffee, cup after cup until the sun disappears from the sky, though they barely notice. It feels like they’ve been friends for years already, with a strange sense that the world was only waiting for them to meet. Before parting ways, Richie grabs Eddie’s phone and puts his number in with the name Trashmouth. Eddie texts him once he reaches his dorm, asking about weekend plans and favorite spots on campus — a promise to see each other again.

★★★

Autumn is already on its way in and the slowly lowering temperature reminds everyone who dares to forget. For Eddie (and most anyone from the area or farther north), it’s still summer. He forgoes jackets unless the daily low somehow creeps beneath forty-five and it won't for weeks. For Stan, however, still acclimated to Atlanta weather after a summer back home, it's winter; he's bundled up. Mike falls somewhere in between. They look like a multi-season clash of fashion crowded around a picnic table, t-shirts and scarves and sweaters.

Their voices don’t make their way to Eddie’s brain, breezing past his ears and disappearing in the air around the quad. He pays attention to the ding of his phone. Another text from Richie. He doesn’t know if he’s ever been so ecstatic to talk to somebody, he’s been staying up later and waking up earlier just to get more conversations in — Richie never seems to sleep, adding to the mystery of how he stays so energetic. Most of the texts are nonsense, random pictures, and obnoxious jokes; the last one was Richie's hand on top of the first two letters on a sign saying _classroom. _Talking to him makes Eddie smile, makes his heart warm up in a way so strange. It’s dangerous, he knows, but he still revels in the feeling.

** _— messages: Trashmouth (3) —_ **

** _Trashmouth [11:31 AM]:   
_ ** _ “Gazebos & Placebos”  
_ ** _Trashmouth [11:31 AM]:  
_ ** _ I like that title  
_ ** _Trashmouth [11:31 AM]:   
_ ** _ Your blog pieces are some good shit _

** _Eds [11:32 AM]:  
_ ** _ did you seriously google me? _

** _Trashmouth [11:32 AM]:   
_ ** _ ……perhaps  
_ ** _Trashmouth [11:32 AM]:  
_ ** _ Seems like you’ve got quite a case of mommy issues _

** _Eds [11:33 AM]:  
_ ** _ you have no idea. _

** _Trashmouth [11:33 AM]:  
_ ** _ I’ve got a pretty good one  
_ ** _Trashmouth [11:33 AM]:  
_ ** _ You make her sound like a barrel of fun _

** _Eds [11:34 AM]:  
_ ** _ oh she’s the bee’s knees, why else would i rather walk  
_ _ into oncoming traffic than be around her? _

** _Trashmouth [11:34 AM]:   
_ ** _ No wonder you’re a psych major, you’re all sorts of  
_ _ fucked up_

** _Eds [11:35 AM]:  
_ ** _ beep beep, Richie. _

“Earth to Kaspbrak! Let’s go.” Stan throws him from his thoughts, waving a hand in front of him and shaking his head. A smile blooms across Eddie’s face and he ignores the sirens going off in his head. Maybe he can ignore it for a little while longer, he hasn't mentioned Richie yet. “Did you meet a girl or something?” The possibility of ignoring it vanishes, mocking him that he'd ever thought he could. The guilt is back and it’s overwhelming.

“No.” He shoves his phone in his pocket and ignores the multiple dings it makes. He stands up and follows them. Lying to Stan and Mike always makes him sick. “Just a friend. His name’s Richie.” He can feel his stomach churn, how could he think he could ignore this? Goddamn idiot.

“Is he cute?” Stan leans in closer, putting an arm around Eddie’s shoulder and smiling. Shame swirls in his veins until it replaces all the blood. He wonders if the guilt is red too, if it’d look any different than the humiliation-laced blood normally swimming there. He wants to be like Stan, proud and unashamed and happy; a person who knows who he is and embraces it. But, given the choice, he'd rather be like Mike, sweet and easeful and content; a person who wants to figure out who he is and embraces it. The difference is in who they'd love. All Eddie can hear is his mother’s voice in his head screaming at him to say he’s not normal, he’ll never be normal.

“I guess,” he mumbles. _ Liar, _ his heart screams at him. _ Liar. _ He remembers the picture from this morning. _ Liar. _ Bedhead and honey brown eyes behind thick glasses. _ Liar. _ Tank top barely on his shoulders. It made his mind wander a little too close to intimate things, as it does with all the suggestive jokes (and there are many). “See for yourself if you’re so curious. He’s in my next class. I dunno what he’s into though, Stan.” Code for: don’t get your hopes up just yet. Eddie wishes he could tell that to himself and listen. He only realizes how far they’ve walked when he reaches the class’ building.

“I’ll be there anyway,” he calls. He disappears into the crowd with Mike as Eddie pushes the doors open and makes his way up the concrete steps. He found this shortcut in his freshman year, an old staircase no one else seems to use or, if they do, never at the same time. It saves him the trouble of waiting for the elevators, at least ten minutes of standing around to cram into a hot, small space with strangers. No thanks.

Richie’s in the same seat as always, scribbling in a notebook with a green glitter pen. He only looks up when Eddie sits beside him, rolling chair squeaking with small movements. The lights overhead create a sort of glow around him — a halo that makes him look appear as a fluorescent, jittery angel, or maybe it’s from the energy drink, though it looks unopened. There are a few new tattoos on his hands, one on each finger. Five black dots in a line trailing down from his nails; they look as though they were done in a hasty, boredom-induced decision in the middle of the night. This is the third time Eddie’s noticed tattoos he hasn’t seen since last meeting Richie, it seems to be a habit of his to mark his own skin. He wonders how many there are, how many hidden beneath clothes or in the most intimate of places. He corrects himself, feeling like he's had to do it too often lately.

“Hey, Eddie.”

“Hey, Trashmouth,” he says, taking out a notebook of his own.

“I hope yer ready for the shittiest essay you ever did read, pardnah.” He uses his Spaghetti Western accent and there’s a grin on his face, gleaming like the sun. Eddie only catches the title scrawled in Richie’s awful handwriting. _ Crashing & Burning. _ The prompt has completely left his head, only popping back up when the professor walks in and reminds him. Life lessons. Richie gives him a stack of papers — pages upon pages — and smiles again. Eddie only just managed to write three.

“Second shittiest,” Eddie whispers, sliding the notebook over to him, “mine is pretty bad.” Written in an hour, throwing words onto the page as quickly as they came to him and hoping it all made sense. He wishes he’d put more thought into it now that it has to be seen by somebody else, but makes himself delve into Richie’s writing instead; the words floor him. _ Falling in love with the way I can feel a part of something and pushing it away with a swift change in emotion. _He's unsure what he'd expected, but every sentence is a knife to the heart. _ Black and white, only one or the other, never once printed in full color. I don’t get that luxury. _ He doesn’t even know what it’s about, it pulls at him somehow. _ Too short of missed chances and regretful words. Finding balance is like an ocean I can’t baptize myself in. _ He can’t make himself write a single word into the margins, it doesn’t need any help. He almost doesn’t notice Richie’s voice, how it calls his name and demands his attention. The class is over, ended early. Did time really move that fast or was he lost in those words for too long?

“What’d you think?”

“You turn words into art.” Eddie stuffs his things back into his bag and doesn’t dare look at the writing in the empty spaces. He doesn’t want to know how embarrassing his essay is in comparison.

“Words are already art, they don’t need my help.” He and Eddie walk out together, down the stairs and out into the sun. It doesn't register that Richie knows about the staircase too, not until they're already outside. There’s something humming, unspoken, between them. He wants to know.

“What’s the crash and burn?” he asks. Richie looks flustered, hands finding the bottom of his shirt and tugging at it. He’s quickly recognized his ticks — fidgety hands, messing with his hair, and pacing among others — but can’t decide if they’re from nerves or energy with nowhere else to go. Neither would surprise him very much.

“Oh, I don't wanna—”

“Eddie!” Stan says, and the humming stops. Relief writes itself across Richie’s face, turning to slight insecurity as he sees Stan looking him over — gaze traveling up, down, then back up again.

“I’m Richie.” He offers his hand but Stan doesn’t seem to notice or even respond. He waits a few seconds before letting his hand fall back at his side. “And...you are?” He glances at Eddie, who’s about ready to die.

“Totally smitten,” Stan mumbles. Richie’s cheeks host a bloom of rose bushes and Eddie can’t help but roll his eyes. He’s never seen Stan flirt before, it’s a weird experience and he’s not sure he ever wants to see it again if it's always this awkward. He’s never seen Richie get flustered either, at least not like this. Richie just nods, waving goodbye to Eddie and saying something about another class. Stan doesn’t say anything until he sees him engulfed by the crowds. “He’s definitely a little gay, at least I hope.” Eddie hits him in the shoulder.

“Way to be subtle, Stan.”

“You didn't tell me he was that cute. I had no warning, totally blindsided by hotness.”

“You’re just thirsty.”

“Rightfully so!” Stan shouts, grabbing Eddie’s arm and pulling him closer while they walk together. “The man looks like a _god,_ Eddie. How on earth can you look at him and still say you’re straight?” Fear bubbles up in his chest and he doesn’t answer, the sound of his phone saves him from having to.

** _— messages: Trashmouth (3) —_ **

** _Trashmouth [1:07 PM]:  
_ ** _ Friday Night Firepit? We can meet by the science hall  
_ ** _Trashmouth [1:07 PM]:  
_ ** _ You should invite Totally Smitten  
_ ** _Trashmouth [1:07 PM]:  
_ ** _ Which is a lovely name btw _

** _Eds [1:08 PM]:  
_ ** _ that was an epic disaster beyond all proportions.  
_ ** _Eds [1:08 PM]:  
_ ** _ that was my friend Stan. _

** _Trashmouth [1:09 PM]:  
_ ** _ It was kinda cute  
_ ** _Trashmouth [1:09 PM]:  
_**_Is he also roommate Stan? _

** _Eds [1:10 PM]:  
_ ** _ you mean cringy, and yeah. _

** _Trashmouth [1:10 PM]:  
_ ** _ Oh well!!!  
_ ** _Trashmouth [1:10 PM]:_  
**_I’ve already decided he’s coming with us_

★★★

Cool winds, flickering flames, and burnt marshmallows; the music is just barely drowned out by the voices of those around them and their shoes hitting against the beaten cobblestone path. The steps are littered with people, but Richie’s prepared. He finds a spot between two trees, further from the fire, and sets up a hammock for them both. They cram into the same space and Eddie doesn't complain — except whenever Richie reaches to grab his drink and the entire thing threatens to flip. Sometimes he does it to hear Eddie curse, to feel him squirm in attempts to prevent falling onto the ground, he always gets punched in the shoulder after he laughs. Eddie doesn’t know why, but he’s grown used to it (actually, he’s grown to like it, but he won’t tell him that).

“Who would you be if you lived in the 60s?” Richie asks, “I think I’d be the pretentious asshole who goes to a liberal arts college in Vermont and evade the draft by telling them I’m gay. I would also one hundred percent start crying once we landed on the moon, probably even get lobotomized when I said I was gay because, you know, the 60s.” Something lurches in Eddie’s chest. Maybe Stan’s right or maybe Richie’s joking. He doesn’t want to ask.

“I’d be a flower child who’s always unsuspected of rioting because I look too innocent to have thrown rocks at the police,” Eddie says. It’s like he’s thought about it before, Richie’s almost impressed. He puts a cigarette between his teeth, fumbling to find his lighter and giving up when he realizes he’ll have to get up to grab it from his pocket. It’s alright, Eddie hates it anyway. He tries not to smoke a whole lot when he’s around, hearing about his dad’s lung cancer and subsequent death was enough to make him come to that decision.

“I think you’d accidentally get addicted to cocaine.”

“How the fuck do you _ accidentally _ get addicted to cocaine?”

“How the fuck did you two end up talking about this?” Stan interrupts, holding a stack of s’mores and hoarding them like gold. He only smiles when Richie rushes to take one, not bothering to try and stop him. They’re probably meant for him anyway.

“Hey, Totally Smitten,” he grins, causing Stan’s cheeks to go red in an instant. He doesn’t pay attention to that, digging in and creating a mess of marshmallow and melted chocolate. Eddie, however, notices immediately. He can see the way Stan’s fingers find the chain around his neck, fumbling with the pendant and running his thumb over each point on the Star of David. He always messes with it when he’s nervous, even when he asks himself why he wears it sometimes.

“My name’s Stan.” His voice is soft.

“Totally Smitten is cuter.” Richie flashes a smile and he knows Stan is done for. Flirting is one of the many things he prides himself on, but not many can tell the difference between jokes and actual attempts at it — Eddie still questions it sometimes, convincing himself it’s the former. He wonders which Stan will think this is. “Not that you need help with that. The southern drawl you’ve got goin’ on is enough of a panty-dropper.” Totally, totally done for. Eddie feels something lurch in his chest again, something he pushes deep down. But, it still moves. During loud conversations and exchanged grins, it’s there. He hardly listens, seldom speaking until Stan drags him away. He thinks it’s under the guise of getting more drinks, he can’t really remember. Something that isn’t true, but believable enough for Stan to get him alone.

“Do you think he likes me?” Stan glances back, watching Richie talk to the girl with fiery red hair from the café. He thinks her name is Beverly, they’ve been there enough that he feels like he should remember.

“I dunno.”

“He’s been flirting with me the entire time.” He almost looks disappointed, gaze still stuck on Richie and probably-Beverly now locked in an embrace. He whispers something in her ear that makes her throw her head back and laugh, unashamed at the volume and intensity.

“Richie flirts with everyone. Plus, you don’t know he’s gay.”

“I do know,” Stan says, a little too fast, “but, you’re right.” He sighs, looking back to Eddie and letting his shoulders drop. There's less pep in his words. “You two flirt all the time.”

“We do not.” Eddie frowns, still trying to smother the flicker in his chest. It keeps coming back stronger, raging as fire and filling his throat with black smoke; it’s familiar yet, somehow, different. He doesn’t know from where, but hates it. He retreats into himself, ignoring the conversations that continue once they walk back. Stan drops obvious hints and Richie, verecund, tries to change the subject. Eddie looks at the dark parts of the sky peaking through the leaves while he lays on the hammock, slightly swaying. He doesn’t know how long he stays there, stuck in his own head and looking for stars, but he thinks it’s a long time. He stops hearing Stan’s voice after a while and assumes he went back.

“Psst, Eddie.” He feels Richie poke his cheek and glances over.

“What?”

“Let’s bail. I wanna show you something.” Richie grabs Eddie’s hand and yanks him from the hammock, quickly untying and stuffing it into the backpack he slings over his shoulder. He grabs his hand again, guiding him down the cobblestone walkways and weaving between groups of people. Eddie’s too busy thinking about the fact that Richie’s holding his hand to say 'excuse me' and Richie doesn’t bother at all. “Close your eyes,” he says, turning down an empty path and grabbing onto his shoulders.

“I swear to god, Tozier, if you murder me I’m gonna be so pissed off.” Eddie shuts his eyes anyway.

“What could you do about it? You’d be dead.” Richie keeps guiding him, making sure he doesn’t bump into anything or trip on something. He doesn’t know how far they’ve gotten, but it feels as if he’s had his eyes closed forever. The feeling of his fingers pressed into his shoulders starts to prickle, igniting in his skin like sparklers.

“I could haunt you!”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Richie says. Eddie feels the ground start to slant downward when they make another turn. His breathing starts to get shallow, unsure of where they're going. _ You’re safe with him, _ his heart whispers. “You’d see some unpleasant shit. You don’t even want to know where these hands have been.” Richie squeezes Eddie’s shoulders and he squirms, hitting him in the chest a few times and opening his eyes.

“You’re so disgusting.”

“Turn around.”

“Why?”

“Just do it, dipshit.” Richie points ahead of him and Eddie turns around, though reluctant. The sight takes his breath away altogether. His arms fall limp at his sides and he stares, wide-eyed. “This is my secret spot. I’m sure other people have found it but I’ve never seen any around before. Plus, I mean, it's sorta hard to get to.” He barely listens to Richie’s voice, eyes stuck on twinkling lights and skyscrapers. He can see all of Boston from up here, a hilltop he’s somehow never stumbled upon.

“I wouldn’t even care if you killed me right now, let me die looking at this.” Eddie’s voice is soft, full of awe and wonder. He almost forgot that this city is his salvation — almost ninety square miles of heaven his mother can’t poison for him. If Richie notices the glassiness of his eyes, he doesn’t say anything. They sit in the grass and stare out at the skyline, hands barely brushing against each other when they scoot closer. _ We’re friends, _ Eddie thinks. _ Friends do this. _But, none of the friends he’s had before. He tries not to think too much about it.

“Stan’s not my type, by the way.” Richie looks at him, moonlight shining in his eyes and wind caressing his curls. Eddie knows, if this were a movie or book, something would happen. But, it isn’t. It’s not a movie. It’s not a book. It’s real life. His heart might explode and he can’t think of anything to push the feeling away. His mother’s shadow won’t leave his head.

“How’d you get into acting?” Eddie blurts out. The movie moment fades, Richie gets the subtle message, and they look out at the city. He wonders if Stan was right, he's found himself asking that a lot tonight.

“You know that girl in the café with red hair?” Richie glances toward Eddie, who nods slightly. “Her name’s Beverly. She does a lot of shows, mostly costumes, and kept telling me I should too, but I kept brushing her off. Well, me being a dumbass, I made a bet with her saying that if I lost I’d audition for a show of her choice,” he gestures vaguely to nothing, “and now here I am.”

“What was the bet?”

“Interesting story,” he smiles to himself, “our friend Bill said we never stop talking about sex and we’d probably have nothing to talk about if we did. Bev took it a step further and said, not only could we stop talking about it, but we could stop doing it. I think I lasted about a month.” Eddie’s face gets warm. He couldn’t imagine someone losing a bet over that but, then again, he doesn’t know what it’s like. How could he miss something he doesn’t know the feeling of? He doesn’t want Richie to know. _ Play it cool, _ he tells himself. There's no reason for him to assume this is an off-limits topic for Eddie.

“Couldn’t you have just—”

“That wasn’t allowed either.”

“Fuck that.”

_ “Exactly. _ I probably would’ve won otherwise. She won’t admit it but she was suffering as much as I was. I think if I could’ve held out for a week then she would’ve lost.” Richie puts a cigarette between his teeth and searches for his lighter, the glow of the flame illuminates his cheeks. His hands are shaking too much to forgo it for another few hours.

“She must’ve seen some talent in you. I did, from what I saw,” Eddie says. Richie shrugs, watching smoke disappear into the air. He blows it away from him, but the wind doesn’t help.

“I don’t think I’m all that good.”

“Shut the fuck up, you were amazing! It almost made me forget why I was there.”

“Why were you there?” Richie asks. The space between them feels smaller and the earth buzzes beneath them. They haven’t talked about why it is they ended up meeting, only calling it good luck and fate. Nobody but Stan has seen Eddie that vulnerable before.

“I don’t know. It just...it happens sometimes and I have to drop everything to make sure I don’t lose my grip. That one wasn’t too bad, actually. They’re normally worse. I have a theory on _ why _ I get them but I’ll bore you another day. No need to unload all that baggage.” Eddie drops his head back, staring up at the stars. He can feel Richie looking at him, expectant. He glances over to be sure and catches his gaze, brown eyes warm and inviting. “I think it’s because of how I was raised. You know, all the shit with my mom.”

“Makes sense. Being conditioned to live in total fear of death and disease sounds like a great start to developing deeply-rooted anxiety.” And Eddie knows he must have read it all, every last post.He wonders if he should have deleted them, at least Richie’s had the decency not to ask about specifics.

“I’m not sick.”

“I know,” Richie says, there’s no hesitation, “but if that makes you sick then I am too.” His hand brushes against Eddie’s leg and something starts to make sense. The crashing and burning. He still doesn’t know what it is, but he’s sure that’s what he means. “Then again, a lot of people probably think we are. I guess we’re both fucked up.”

“I don’t feel as fucked up when I’m with you,” Eddie says, breathless when Richie looks over at him and smiles. It says all it needs to, they look at the skyline some more and the sound of the city is music.

“Maybe you just needed to find your kind.”


	2. nobody puts marty in a corner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The drinking starts soon after, heaps of shot glasses and the taste of bitter vodka. Eddie starts to think this is the first time he’s been to a party since starting college, but who can tell amongst three years of attempted healing and lying to his mother about his major? He’ll believe it if he ends up being right, sounds like the type of thing he’d do — go to college for the chance at freedom but fail to find it until his second to last year. Funny how Richie turned out to be the push he needed, who would have guessed the boy with unruly hair and a mouth too big for his own good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come Down by Anderson .Paak or Los Ageless by St. Vincent for party scene. ik those are two totally different moods but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> [this part's just for me to know i edited this chapter]

**OCTOBER**

“How the fuck am I supposed to do this? It’s easier when there are scenes with only me in them,” Richie sighs. He falls into a heap on the ground and puts his head in his hands, a mess of wild hair and an obnoxious t-shirt (Eddie thinks there might be a reference somewhere in the pattern, but can’t tell for sure). The first audition went really well, now he has callbacks to worry about. It’s a way more interactive scene blocking-wise, having to rely completely on a partner; he practically begged Eddie to help him practice once he saw the contents of it. Every free moment of time has been devoted to reading on the hill — their secret spot.

“C’mon,” Eddie nudges him with his foot and hears him whine, “one more time. You’re already doing better than the first day we read through.”

“It’s in an hour. How am I supposed to do this with a stranger if I can’t even do it with _ you _ after two weeks?” Richie makes himself sit up, fingers folding the corners of the pages and fidgeting. He always gets antsy when they practice.

“One more time, Rich. Get up,” he says, a little firmer this time. Sometimes he needs to be treated like a child, this is definitely one of those times; Beverly entrusted him with making sure Richie shows up to the audition and he’ll be damned if he fails her. Richie just sighs again, grabbing the script and shaking his head at himself already. He never lets up on himself, always insisting he can do better and pushing it to the point of breaking. He gets to his feet and starts pacing. At least the blocking for the beginning will be perfect, if nothing else. Eddie waits for a few seconds as usual, letting Richie get into the character for a moment longer.

“What else could you do?” He watches Eddie’s hands, pretending he’s really opening a pack of cigarettes and reaching for a lighter. He refuses to touch his as a prop, no amount of wanting authenticity will make Richie ask him to either. It’s an area they steer clear of both inside and outside of running lines.

“I could leave, take a bus to god knows where and get a shitty desk job,” Eddie says. He’s not good at this. He’s _ never _ good, he does enough to help Richie learn his parts but feels inadequate in comparison; anybody could feel inadequate next to him. After a pause, he can see Richie’s eyes flicker with the same something he's been noticing. He doesn’t know how he can make himself portray an emotion he’s not actually feeling. It makes it harder for Eddie to mock bad movies lately, knowing he’s even worse than the C-list (sometimes D-list) actors in them. “I know it’s bad for me. I don’t wanna argue about it right now.” He’s almost bitter in his defense, laying down and putting a notebook next to him used as a fake ashtray. Richie hardly bats an eye. He’s never made fun of him for how shit he is at this. He’ll joke about other things, but not something he's insecure about.

“You can’t run away. People would look for you,” Richie says, eyes floating up in the air like the imaginary smoke. Eddie rolls his eyes right on cue. He might not be good, but he’ll be damned if he isn’t consistent. _“I’d_ look for you.” Even with the softer tone, his shoulders tense at the words. He milks the pause, not knowing how long is too long and wanting to err on the side of caution.

“You and Juno are the only ones who’d notice.” This time, Richie rolls his eyes and purses his lips; a last resort, a bargaining chip, an irresistible offer.

“I’ll go to a college in this state if that’s what it’ll take. We can all three get an apartment after you graduate.” He’s not frustrated about saying it, genuine even with the downsides. Eddie glances up, trying to seem curious, as if the suggestion stuck.

“You would stay for me?” Richie nods as an answer. “You fell in love with LA, though.” The idea is supposed to be bittersweet, but Eddie can’t think of how. The idea of that type of sacrifice seems selfless, giving up something you want for your friend’s piece of mind. He’d do it in a heartbeat if Richie needed him to, couldn’t dream of being upset about it either. He wonders, briefly, if it’d be the same for him. Regardless, he shakes his head and Richie sits beside him. _ The hardest part, _ Eddie thinks. He makes himself lay his head in Richie’s lap anyway and tries to ignore the way his fingers run through his hair. He hates that he adores it.

“Or you could move to California with us, two people paying for one apartment isn’t realistic over there anyway.” They try to laugh, even a little, but it hits a bit too close to home for it to be real. Something else sets in, a huge grin paints itself across both of their faces. The brackets say something about picturing a future that brings images of adventure and happiness to them. Richie nails it, eyes full of stars and longing. All Eddie can do is stare up at him, watching the sun gleam off the lenses of his glasses, and wonder what he’s thinking about. He feels a knee softly nudge into his back and realizes he’s zoning out.

“You know we’d have to go to the Hollywood sign and take a picture of me in front of the W,” he says. He’s kind of jealous it’s something he can’t do himself. Richie ruffles his hair (which is now completely disheveled after so many times) and smiles again, wider now.

“I wouldn’t dream of cheating you out of such an amazing photo opportunity.” Richie’s expression softens as if all the bad feelings are fading, as if the character could stand to cope these next few years just to experience the ones after. Eddie sits up, pretending to put out the cigarette stub and light a new one; he walks over to nothing and pretends he’s opened some windows. The only reason he does it is because they’re alone. No passers-by to see them; it took long enough to not feel embarrassed in front of Richie. He looks out at the skyline like it’s the view of the street.

“How do you do it, Frankie?” Eddie asks, glancing back at him, who’s standing and tilting his head; calling him a different name will never not be strange. There’s confusion for a brief moment. Then, a grin that makes his heart stumble. _ No, _ he tells himself.

“Do what? Be fabulously and irresistibly sexy? I don’t know either, it’s a blessing and a curse.” This character is practically made for Richie, he’s decided as much. Eddie’s heart races more when he stands close and shoves him slightly, arm brushing against his once they’re still.

“How can you always manage to see the bright side of things? Whenever I’m on the verge of losing it, you fix everything.” This is his favorite part; Richie never fails to amaze him. There’s a look he gets in his eyes, something unreadable and fleeting, but it’s desperate to get out. He almost forgets to pretend more smoke is floating in the air. He wants to ask how he does it like it’s nothing, how he captures years of pain with a small expression despite not having felt it himself. It makes him wonder if he _ has _felt it, if he can mimic the emotion so beautifully because it’s sewn into his skin, but he won’t ask. He doesn’t think he wants to know the answer if it’s bad. Not like he’d get an answer anyway, he knows next to nothing about his personal life.

“Eldritch magic, obviously.” Richie’s honey eyes focus on where the lit end of the cigarette would be. The humor vanishes. “I wish you wouldn’t smoke.” Ironic, Eddie thinks every time, Richie has to say this line while his breath still has the hint of nicotine on it. _ Nicotine and mojito chapstick, _ he corrects himself_. _ Sometimes it’s cherry, sometimes it’s vanilla, but it’s usually mojito flavored. He seems to go through tubes of chapstick by the week, Eddie doesn’t know how. Not that he spends a lot of time focusing on Richie’s chapstick or how it’d taste, of course (or so he tries to convince himself).

“I know. I wish I wouldn’t too,” Eddie sighs, his shoulders slump and the rest of him with them. This is the only part he can do well, he wants to get it through to Richie he should quit. He wishes he would, but he doesn’t ask him to. It isn’t really his place. He’s thankful enough he tries not to smoke around him at all. “It’s just something to help me relax a bit. It sounds like a stupid excuse — and it is — but who cares.” He looks at him expectedly, waiting for a lecture of some sort. He doesn’t get one. Richie stands and looks out at the city.

“I get it,” he doesn’t take his eyes off the sky, “something to keep you from losing your shit.” He pauses, grabbing a cigarette from his own case and lighting it between his teeth in one smooth motion, as if it’s muscle memory (and it is). The fire from the lighter is warm against his skin before he puts it away. So far, this is the first one he’s actually lit; an hour or more of auditions means an inability to step out and smoke later, it’s already been far longer than he’s used to. “Things aren’t all great for me either.” The line, and what it could allude to, always reels through Eddie when he hears it. He’s not sure _ why _ Richie’s character is supposed to be hiding this sadness, or why it’s there at all, but it’s there and festering beneath the surface. Sometimes he can’t figure out if Richie’s playing the part or being himself when he says the line. He decides, officially, he doesn’t want to ask.

“DUDE!” Eddie shouts, effectively throwing Richie from his own head. “That was the best one yet! You remembered everything.” They collapse onto the ground and stare up at the clouds, slowly growing gray since they walked out here a few hours ago. Though, some of it might be the smoke from his lungs.

“Let’s hope I'll keep remembering.” Richie rolls onto his side, letting his head rest on Eddie’s shoulder and scooting a little closer to him. He tries to ignore him. He’s gotten good at ignoring the little things Richie does. He at least has the decency to flick the ashes away from them both, not that it’s new.

“You never told me what this show’s about, ya know. All I’ve got is this scene and the one from when we met. Sounds pretty heavy.” The wind blows and all Eddie can focus on is the smell of Richie’s hair. Sandalwood and amber. It’s not hard to remember it. The jacket he left in his dorm still has the scent. Sometimes, he finds himself wanting to wear it. But, no matter how many times Richie’s told him it’s his if he wants, he can’t let himself do it. So, in his closet it stays (he doesn’t want to think of the bitter irony). They stand up and start walking; the callback is too soon to get lost in conversations here.

“Yeah, it is,” Richie says, “this teenager goes missing and everyone’s real fucked up about it. His friends are trying to figure out what happened to him, his family's devastated, and the whole town's talking about him. While the friends look for things that could lead to something, there’s a lot of flashbacks and memories with the kid. They don't all make sense.” Eddie can feel Richie’s arm slip around his waist after he puts the cigarette out in a standing ashtray. It’s getting harder to ignore, everywhere he touches feels like sunlight. He can see the rare second glance people send their way, it makes his cheeks burn. But, not enough for him to make Richie stop. He doesn’t know if he wants him to.

“Do they find him?”

“Yeah.”

“Is he okay?”

“Nah, he’s dead,” Richie says, wind chilling him to the bone. He leans in closer to Eddie and shivers as if being close enough can stop the cold; it sort of works. Eddie puts his arm around him too and he melts into him, hand finding its way into the pouch of his hoodie. He doesn’t ignore it, he doesn’t mind. Normally, he’d bitch at him for not wearing a jacket but it’s nowhere near as fun. _ No, _ he tells himself once more. Maybe he should mind. His mother would want him to stop. Maybe he should keep doing it.

“Holy shit, what happened to him?”

“No one knows for sure,” his voice is muffled and quiet, “the cops say suicide, his friends say he couldn’t have, and his family says he wouldn’t have.” Something in his tone makes it seem like an uncomfortable topic. Eddie can’t tell what. “At the end, during the kid’s funeral, his friends remember all the dark undertones in their memories of him and realize that he wasn’t as happy as he seemed. But, they still don’t want to believe it, so they choose not to.”

“Shit’s depressing as fuck, Rich. Are you really gonna make me sit through that?”

“You don’t have to.”

“Yeah, I do. I’ll be right in the front row every fuckin’ night. I’ll drag Stan and Mike there too, we can all sit together,” Eddie says. He can feel Richie’s fingers curl around his waist when they stop in front of the building. “I’ll be here when you’re done.” Richie nods at him, a shadow of a smile on his face, and disappears behind the metal doors. His heart finally steady again, Eddie waits. He texts Beverly to let her know Richie is holding up his end of the bet and plops down onto a bench that’s assaultingly cold. After the first hour, he debates wandering toward the café. After the second, he considers sitting inside. But, by then, it isn’t very long before Richie walks out. There are tear stains on his cheeks but he grins, putting his arm around Eddie’s shoulders like they'd never been apart.

“Hey, you okay?” He’s careful, maybe it’s from the scene, but he’s never cried when they practiced before.

“Don’t fret, Spaghetti,” Richie says, fingers finding their way to Eddie’s hair while they stumble along the path. He doesn’t have the heart to tell him to stop. He likes it, no matter how much his mind screams at him. He does, however, hate the nickname. “I think I fucked it up a little, but I guess whatever happens happens, ya know?” His eyes give him away. He’s angry with himself, something else happened in there but he won’t say what.

“I bet you got it.”

“We’ll see.”

★★★

** _— messages: Trashmouth (5) —_ **

** _Trashmouth [2:59 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Eddie _ _  
_ ** _Trashmouth [2:59 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Hey, guess what _ _  
_ ** _Trashmouth [2:59 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ EDDDDIIIIEEEEE _ _  
_ ** _Trashmouth [2:59 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Eddie my love _ _  
_ ** _Trashmouth [2:59 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Guess what _

** _Eds [3:00 AM]:_ ** _  
_ _ jfc do you ever sleep?? _

** _Trashmouth [3:00 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Guess _ _  
_ ** _Trashmouth [3:00 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ What _

** _Eds [3:00 AM]:  
_ ** _ it is literally three in the morning.  
_ ** _Eds [3:01 AM]:  
_ ** _ and you were awake all last night too.  
_ ** _Eds [3:01 AM]:  
_ ** _ and i think the night before that. _

** _Trashmouth [3:01 AM]:  
_ ** _ EDDIE _

** _Eds [3:02 AM]:  
_ ** _ FINE  
_ ** _Eds [3:02 AM]:  
_ ** _ WHAT IS IT RICHIE???  
_ ** _Eds [3:03 AM]:  
_ ** _ I AM JUST **DYING** TO KNOW!!!! _

** _Trashmouth [3:04 AM]:  
_ ** _ Well now I don’t wanna tell you _

** _Eds [3:04 AM]:  
_ ** _ oh i’m going to murder you.  
_ ** _Eds [3:05 AM]:  
_ ** _ slowly and painfully.  
_ ** _Eds [3:05 AM]:  
_ ** _ with a rusty butter knife. _

** _Trashmouth [3:06 AM]:  
_ ** _ Kinky ;) _

** _Eds [3:06 AM]:  
_ ** _ i hate you. _

** _Trashmouth [3:08 AM]:  
_ ** _ You can murder me all you want after December, it’ll  
_ _ be pretty hard for me to act as A LEAD IN THE SHOW  
_ _ if I’m dead  
**Trashmouth [3:08 AM]:  
** We did a totally new scene after that first one  
_ ** _Trashmouth [3:08 AM]:  
_ ** _ They said the crying is what sold them _

** _Eds [3:09 AM]:  
_ ** _ okay wait.  
_ ** _Eds [3:09 AM]:  
_ ** _ let me get this straight.  
_ ** _Eds [3:09 AM]:  
_ ** _ you texted me at three in the morning.  
_ ** _Eds [3:09 AM]:  
_ ** _ to tell me you got the part.  
_ ** _Eds [3:10AM]:  
_ ** _ something i KNEW was going to happen?? _

** _Trashmouth [3:10 AM]:  
_ ** _ To be fair, you did answer me at three in the morning _

** _Eds [3:11 AM]:  
_ ** _ the buzzing woke me up. _

** _Trashmouth [3:12 AM]:  
_ ** _ Should’ve put me on Do Not Disturb then, Eds _

** _Eds [3:12 AM]:  
_ ** _ any other announcements before i go to sleep? _

** _Trashmouth [3:13 AM]:  
_ ** _ Yeah, text your friends and tell them we’re going to  
_ _ a Halloween party  
_ ** _Trashmouth [3:13 AM]:  
_ ** _ Actually just gimme their numbers and I’ll make one  
_ _ big group chat _

** _Eds [3:14 AM]:  
_ ** _ if you think i’m subjecting them to your antics then  
_ _ you’re absolutely nuts. _

** _Trashmouth [3:15 AM]:  
_ ** _ Will you give me their numbers if I ask later in the day? _

** _Eds [3:15 AM]:  
_ ** _ maybe. _

** _Trashmouth [3:16 AM]:  
_ ** _ G’night then Eds, have sweet dreams about killing me _

** _Eds [3:17 AM]:  
_ ** _ oh i will. _

★★★

Everything is a clash of pulsing music, flashing lights, and colorful costumes; both everything and nothing he expects it to be. Richie convinced everybody to go to the Halloween party in celebration of the audition he nailed and now, as he stands in the hall of some random house amid a mess of people, Eddie regrets agreeing. They all picked on a theme for themselves — 80s movie characters. He ended up deciding on Scarface, just a black button-up and some of Beverly’s horror make up. He realizes how lazy his costume is once the others show up.

Beverly is Jessica Rabbit; a wig with a slightly darker color as her normal hair, a shimmering red mermaid dress with a slit up the side, and a pair of lavender gloves that go up to her elbows. Bill is Marty McFly; a well-worn denim jacket, a lattice patterned button-up, and a neon orange puffer vest. Stan is Daniel Larusso; a plain white gi with the bonsai tree on the back, a black belt around his waist, and a bandana pushing back his curly hair. Mike is Han Solo; a v-neck shirt, a black vest resting on his shoulders, and boots up to his knees. Ben is Indiana Jones; a sable fedora pushing down his light hair, a brown leather jacket, and a fake whip in hand. It’s only Richie, dressed up as Johnny Castle, who seems to have put as minimal effort as Eddie has, but somehow does it so much better.

“Look, spaghetti arms,” Richie imitates, grabbing his wrist and yanking him closer. He makes a face, trying to pull away and realizing how difficult this night will be if Richie is his usual self. The thoughts in Eddie’s head are dangerous ones. Richie Tozier in skinny jeans and a barely buttoned shirt is dangerous. Richie Tozier in contacts, with tousled and attemptedly straightened hair, is dangerous. Richie Tozier, holding him almost chest-to-chest and smiling so wide, is _ really _ dangerous. He tries, desperately, to pretend this is normal.

“You wanna fuck with me? Okay!” Eddie does an impression of his own. He ducks when Richie tries to go for him, slipping under his arms and bumping into Stan, whose eyes are about ready to roll out of his head. He says the only thing worse than Richie’s sense of humor is when it combines with Eddie’s.

“Movie quotes? Really? You guys are so cheesy.” He slips past them both, ready to make a beeline right for the backyard until Bill speaks up.

“Yeah, Stuh-Stan’s right. This is huh-heavy.” A shit-eating grin blooms across his face and Stan keeps walking, flipping Bill off from over his shoulder until he disappears into the crowd of people culminating by the kitchen door; Beverly follows soon after, making a remark about going to get high with him. Their laughter is drowned out by the noise, so loud they can barely think.

Richie and Eddie’s friends hit it off more than expected, not surprising after the first day of having the group chat, but still something that makes the night feel sweeter no matter how much Eddie doesn’t want to be here (it took _ days _ of convincing). Richie's biggest hunch, that Stan and Beverly would be fast friends, is already coming to fruition. His other hunch about Stan and Bill doesn’t seem to be too far behind. He flashes Eddie a look saying _I told you so _ when the three come back inside arm-in-arm later, eyes puffy and a skunky smell on their costumes.

The drinking starts soon after, heaps of shot glasses and the taste of bitter vodka. Eddie starts to think this is the first time he’s been to a party since starting college, but who can tell amongst three years of attempted healing and lying to his mother about his major? He’ll believe it if he ends up being right, sounds like the type of thing he’d do — go to college for the chance at freedom but fail to find it until his second to last year. Funny how Richie turned out to be the push he needed, who would have guessed the boy with unruly hair and a mouth too big for his own good.

“Eds,” Richie whines, “come dance with me.” His words aren’t slurred yet, it’s only a matter of time. Four shots downed in the span of ten minutes, he almost looks like a pro — using no hands for one of them, a lot of people cheered.

“What do I always say about that name?”

“Not to use it.” There’s a smile on Richie’s face so pure, it tells Eddie that the nickname is inevitable. He doesn’t think he minds very much, at least not as much as he says he does. He gets asked to dance a few more times and rejects the offer a few more times. Music still blasts, enough to drown out Richie’s voice when he tries to say something again but gestures to Bill and disappears with him; maybe he’ll dance instead. Ben has disappeared too, leaving him with Mike for a moment or so before he gets dragged into another room by Stan in the name of needing a beer pong partner.

Eddie’s alone, standing in the corner of the kitchen and people-watching — too touchy couples, obnoxious flirters, and someone who spills their drink on his shirt upon bumping into him. He knows why he’s never bothered to go to a party until now, why it’d taken so many days of convincing on Richie’s part; swarms of drunk assholes and the constant reminder that he can’t dance unless he’s alone in his dorm. He keeps taking shots, somewhere around six or seven now, and sees Richie push out of the crowd, dragging Bill behind him with the ghost of laughter leaving his face.

Eddie can feel his shoulders tense, eyes focused on their hands clasped so tightly together. _ Not jealous, _ he thinks to himself. He wants to go home. _ Not jealous. _ His footsteps hardly make noise and his fingers drag along the wall as he follows them. His shirt sticks to his chest and smells like beer. _ Not jealous. _ Up the stairs and down the hall, he can hear Richie’s jokes echoing in his head. Is he drunk? Is this what it feels like? He has to be drunk. _ Not jealous. _ If he’s not, he should have had a few more. The floor seems to sway beneath him and he can hear laughter. Friends can hold hands. He tries to tell himself that’s something he can do one day without wanting to panic. _ Not jealous. _ A hand grabs his arm and he’s ready to run, only to see Stan smiling ear to ear. There’s a hickey on his neck, almost hidden by the neckline of the costume. At least he seems to be having a good time. Eddie wishes he could say the same.

“You look like you need to lie down.” His eyes are still red and puffy, so heavy-lidded they’re nearly closed. He wonders, for a moment, who left the marks on his skin; it’s not like Stan to hook up with guys he doesn’t know.

“I wanna say goodbye to Richie.” Eddie’s tone is defensive and his words are too fast, but Stan comes with him, offering his arm when he stumbles through the hall. A mess of more laughter comes from the room before they can walk through the doorway. He can hear Richie’s hushed tone, careful and soft. Words about being sure and words about it not being too much to ask. Reassurance for something, he doesn’t know what. Then, for a moment, total silence. He creeps closer to the doorway and stops when he hears his voice again.

“Is...is this okay?” He’s never heard Richie sound so anxious. How does a person like Richie even get worried? What the hell makes _ him _ worried? Eddie knows once he’s walking into the room, stomach plummeting and Stan repeatedly hitting his arm as if to say _ let’s get out of here _ or _ I told you I was right. _ Richie is kissing Bill, one hand on his cheek and another on his knee. Bill’s hands find their way to Richie’s hair and he pulls on the longest almost-straightened curls, almost back to their normal shape now. All Eddie can do is stare. He doesn’t realize he’s dropped his keys until the two of them jump apart at the sound.

“Hey, Eds.” Richie smiles at him, words blurred and slurred. Bill is speechless, eyes finding Stan, who grabs the keys and puts them back in Eddie’s hand. His cheeks are pink, barely, and he avoids looking at either of them once he realizes who they are.

“I, uh, just wanted to say I was leaving. I’m sorry.” He turns around and leaves, racing down the steps until he’s out the front door. Panic starts to grab him; it pinches his skin and starts to scratch. The whole part of ignoring it is gone, ripped away and stolen. Richie’s not supposed to be gay too; it makes too many questions flutter through Eddie’s head, ones that burn in the pit of his stomach. _ Have he and Bill been together this whole time? _ He can hear Richie following close behind, calling after him. _ Did everyone know? _ He pretends not to notice until he’s almost a block away from the house, Richie runs ahead of him and stops. _ What if— _

“Eddie,” he looks like he might cry, “please...talk to me.”

“I wanna go home, Rich.”

“Is it because I’m gay?” he asks. His eyes are wide and full of fear, shallow breaths that hardly give him any air at all. And Eddie realizes Richie is scared, he’s so goddamn scared. Has someone abandoned him because of this? Has he had to patch up the holes they left behind?

“No,” Eddie whispers, “god no. I don’t care, Richie. You know that already.” He can see the relief on his face amongst concern and confusion. Not scared anymore, but worried all the same.

“Is it because I didn’t tell you?”

“No.”

“I don’t understand then.” Richie steps closer, panic fires off in Eddie’s brain and makes it go haywire. He might be sick. He _ will _ be sick. “Is it because of Bill?” There’s a look, brief but paralyzing, from Richie that he thinks could kill him if he sees it again.

“I just want to go home,” he says, a bit too fast, “parties aren’t my thing.” He tries not to sound as urgent to leave as he really is, tries not to sound like his brain has been short-circuiting since seeing them together. Richie understands and offers to walk him back but he shoos him away. He can’t hear what he says after that, he’s focusing on not throwing up. His hands are home to earthquakes and his mouth is watering. The image keeps flickering in his head as he runs toward his building.

_ Is this okay?  
_Richie’s hands on Bill, wandering before settling somewhere safe.  
_Is this okay?   
_The soft hums from his throat when Bill tugs on his hair.  
_Is this okay?  
_They’re on the edge of someone’s bed.  
_Is this okay?  
_Sitting so close, legs a jumbled mess.  
_Is this okay?_

Eddie falls to his knees and his stomach empties itself. Bitter, disgusting taste; the vodka he’d downed not long ago and the gummy worms Beverly let him have while she did his makeup for him. He hates himself for using his sleeve to wipe his mouth, but clothes can be washed and he cares far more about getting to a shower. He throws his clothes in the hamper once he’s through the door — never has he been so grateful for picking a single-occupancy dorm. The sound of running water overtakes his brain. He lets it. Anything to distract him. Water slithers down his back and the heat makes the mirror steam up, he can’t see his reflection once he’s out; standing with a towel hanging from his hips and water dripping from his hair.

“You don’t like him,” Eddie says. He grabs the edge of the sink and repeats it for each time his mind wanders to what it could be like to be in Bill’s place.

“You don’t like him.” He doesn’t believe himself.

“You don’t like him.” The image won’t leave his head.

“You don’t like him.” The fear on Richie’s face won’t leave his head.

“You don’t like him.” His mother’s voice won’t leave his head.

“You don’t fucking like him.” A sob escapes from his throat and it’s now that he realizes the tears in his eyes, rolling down his cheeks and staining the makeup Beverly did for him. It feels like a waste. “Shit,” he hisses, painfully tearing at the latex on his cheeks and throwing it away once it comes off. He doesn’t know if he’s gotten it all, he doesn’t care. He climbs into bed and cries. He’s tried so hard to ignore this. Maybe he could’ve done better. Maybe—

His phone dings.

** _— messages: Trashmouth (1) —_ **

** _Trashmouth [11:49PM]:  
_** _Thanks for your help, I wouldn’t have gotten the part  
__without you_

A smile tugs on the corners of Eddie’s lips and he finds himself calling Richie. It barely rings once.

“Hey,” Richie says. His words are still slurred, almost worse now.

“You would’ve gotten it without my help.”

“Nah.”

“I’m sorry if I was rude. I don’t care if you’re gay. I don’t care that you didn’t tell me. I know you must’ve had a reason not to and I understand,” Eddie says, listening to the whirring of the fan pointed right at him. His blankets feel weightless on top of him. “I drank a lot and I know that’s not an excuse. I think it was too much. I don’t know, I’ve never done it before. I threw up after I snapped at you.”

“You did four shots and you’ve never drank before?”

“Seven.”

"You did _ seven _ shots and you’ve never drank before? Holy fuck, man.” He sounds impressed, whether from Eddie’s sheer stupidity or something else he can’t tell. It’s quiet for a bit, only a few moments, before Richie keeps talking. “I know you don’t care, by the way. I was worried, but I know you don’t care. I guess having you walk in on me making out with one of my friends wasn’t the way I pictured coming out to you in my head.” He’s quiet again. Things feel okay, maybe they can stay like that. “Eddie?”

“Yeah?”

“He didn’t mean it,” Richie says, voice softer than before, “we were talking and then he kissed me and I think he wanted to know what it was like.” He keeps explaining. Eddie isn’t really sure why. “I don’t...I don’t like him like that. I like someone else.” _ Oh, _ Eddie realizes, _ that’s why. _ His stomach churns and a shiver goes down his spine. In a perfect world, he would tell Richie he might like someone too. In a perfect world, he would tell Richie he might like _ him. _ It’s not a perfect world.

“Goodnight, Richie.” Eddie’s heart breaks and he hates himself a little more.

“G’night, Eds.”


	3. we’ve all gone too big too fast and then run out of room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I have to tell you something.” His voice is tiptoeing around the truth, trying not to acknowledge the importance of the words he desperately wants to say. “It’s...it’s a lot.”
> 
> “You can tell me anything,” Eddie says. He means it with every part of him, no thought or hesitation for this line. He doesn’t have to act, he’s not quite sure if Richie does either. The first time they ran through this, the sincerity in Eddie’s voice took Richie out of the scene for a while.
> 
> “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [this part's just for me to know i edited this chapter]

**NOVEMBER**

The ring of the phone bites like nails being hammered into Eddie’s head. Nonstop and blaring, accompanied by the sound of buzzing on the windowsill. Didn’t he turn his phone off before he fell asleep? He can’t remember until he forces his eyes open. Sunlight gleams through the blinds, only adding to the throbbing pain against his temples — they’ve always been shitty and the building still won’t let him put up curtains. Golden, molten lava pours into every crevice of the room; he wouldn’t be opposed to actively funding a supervillain’s plot to put out the sun if it meant it’d stop this headache. Why did he drink so much last night? His hand reaches for the phone before his eyes can adjust to the light, not bothering to check the number when he answers.

“Hello?”

“Eddie,” Bill says. He sounds worried. Suddenly, last night isn’t as hazy. He can place the sight of fingers running through dark hair and the smell of vodka on someone’s breath. Someone’s hand was on Bill’s cheek. Eddie can’t remember where the other one was. “Cuh-can we talk? I feel kuh-kind of awkward ab-about what happened.” He remembers. Bill and Richie kissed at the party. They did a little more just kiss. Bill is the one who had him humming soft moans when he pulled on his curls, moans that infiltrated Eddie’s drunken dreams. He forces himself up, a groan slipping past his lips and a dull ache in his back. He wouldn’t be surprised if Richie’s done something more stupid than make out with his friend, like trying to hop an eight foot high fence or attempting to slide down the railing of a staircase (the stupid things he does while sober). He realizes he’s not wearing clothes when he stands — too lazy post-shower to put any on, or maybe too emotional. He smells like diluted peach lotion and stale sweat.

“Wanna grab a coffee? I could use a cup about now.” His voice is hoarse and scratchy. Bill doesn’t have any qualms, telling him he’ll be at the cafe in ten minutes and hanging up right after. Eddie can barely make himself get dressed at all with the burning in his muscles, let alone find something decent; he grabs his keys, slips on his shoes, and starts walking anyway.

Birds chirp a little too loud and half-hearted decorations are still outside buildings, every part of his body feels stiff and tight. Whenever a ray of sun catches his eye, a blinding pain envelops his head. Thoughts envelop it too, far more frequent and far more painful. What will he say to Bill? He doesn’t even know how it happened, or _ why. _ He thinks, maybe, Bill was just drunk like Richie said. He hopes that’s all it is, despite the guilt. If him and Richie are together, if they’re happy, what right does he have to be jealous? The thought makes Eddie’s throat constrict, it loosens only when he sees Bill sitting at a table with a purple umbrella. The sun shines off his hair and a smile blooms on his face, happy to see him but nervous.

“You look like sh-shit.”

“Wow, Bill, you really know how to make a guy feel special.”

“Huh-hung over?”

“Lucky guess.” Eddie falls into a chair, getting his hands on the mug of coffee already waiting for him. Bill just smiles at him again, he knows there’s nothing like a Trashmouth Macchiato to cure a hangover and there’s nothing like free coffee; not that either of them have to pay for it when Beverly’s working. But, something thick and gauche falls over them both. Neither of them know where to start. What exactly is the protocol for drunkenly making out with one of your best friends and then having another best friend walk in on you? Especially when one of them has never mentioned an interest in other guys before and the other seemed a little too upset for it to be considered a normal reaction? For a moment, Eddie fears he’s caught.

“Did Ruh-Richie end up taking yuh-you home? He didn’t cuh-come back.” Bill shifts in his seat. He’s twisting and turning the cup, watching the whipped cream wobble on the surface of the foam. “He won’t an-answer me.” His leg is bouncing, making his chair squeak the faster it goes. He’s always restless, it’s engraved into his soul. He’s the embodiment of last minute road trips, midnight adventures on city streets, and words shouted in the heat of the moment. Nobody’s never sure if Bill’s content with his life as it is, fluttering from one thing to the next and not looking back; he might not even know. He still has piles of unfinished stories because he thinks up better ideas halfway through, only managing to complete something when Georgie asks him to. Sometimes, they’re shocked he’s still in school and studying instead of dropping out to travel the world with nothing but the shirt on his back.

“No, he just…” Eddie thinks for a moment, realizing he doesn’t have an answer. “I don’t really know where he went. He called me once I was back.” Bill groans, slinking down into a heap on the table, and it turns into a soft sigh. Eddie barely catches it, something in him is relieved at the idea; it wasn’t a normal occurrence. At least, he doesn’t think. “I’m sure—”

“How are either of you even alive right now? I feel like dying.” Bill lifts his head at the sound of Richie’s voice, finding the source when he sits between him and Eddie. He’s still in the clothes from the party — the buttons on his shirt undone and the jeans digging into his hips until he stands. His eyes are bloodshot, dark circles to match, and his hair looks nearly lifeless.

“What makes you think we’re alive?” Eddie nudges his foot and the smallest of smiles appears. At least he’s not too hungover for humor.

“I mean, honestly, I dunno about you, Eds. But, anybody who gets a smooch from me can’t possibly die without getting another one,” Richie teases. Bill just rolls his eyes, pretending not to notice when his coffee is stolen. The whipped cream leaves behind a white mustache on Richie’s upper lip and he licks it off in a way that makes Eddie’s stomach twist.

“As I re-recall, I kissed _ you_.” The ghost of a smirk forms on his face, remembering the incident all over again. Eddie can’t tell if it’s fondly or not. If it’s fondly, is it because it’s a funny story or for something else? He almost feels like he isn’t really here. “I juh-just wanna act like nuh-nothing happened.” Everyone feels relief grab a hold of them. _ At least luck’s looking out for me a little bit, _ Eddie thinks. But, then, there’s guilt again. What could he possibly have to gain by Richie being single? He refuses to acknowledge the answer his mind gives him.

“Thank fuck. No offense, Bill, you’re a real catch but we’d be a disaster if the state of our bathroom is anything to go off of.”

“Yuh-you’re telling me.” They laugh, only for a moment, and then the blanket of tension is laid upon them again. There are so many questions to ask, but too much anxiety to ask them. Eddie wants to leave, feeling more like he’s intruding on something than having a conversation. How do they just _ not care _about what happened? Something in him aches, desperately, to treat it as casually as them.

“What’s the verdict though, huh? You like kissing dudes or what, Denbrough?” Richie grins ear to ear, resting his chin on his hand and being overdramatic when Bill kicks his shin from under the table — pretending the bone is broken and acting as if his trust has been betrayed. People give them strange looks, none of them care (except Eddie, who's red in the face). “It’s a valid question! I mean, you could do way worse.” His other hand finds Eddie’s knee under the table. He almost jumps, heart jolting at the feeling, but just looks at Richie instead. He acts like he’s done nothing at all.

“I duh-don’t think I like guys. Just wanted to truh-try it,” Bill says. Richie can see the frustration in his eyes, the same look he always gets when he stumbles on his words. He doesn’t seem to give himself a break. There’s something else too. “Why did yuh-you let muh-me kiss you?” They ignore the poor choice of words. _ Kiss. _ Singular, as if they didn’t end up making out until they were interrupted by Stan and Eddie. Richie almost curses under his breath upon remembering that part. Would things have gone much farther if Eddie hadn’t shown up? He can’t imagine his drunken self would be that stupid, even knowing the dumbass he can be.

“Man, don’t make me talk about this shit when Spaghetti’s here.” Richie squeezes, just barely, and this time he _ does _jump.

“Hey, if you’ve guh-got repressed feelings for muh-me, now’s the time to say so. Luh-lay it on me, Trashmouth! Give me the buh-best confession you’ve got in ya.” A shit-eating grin pulls on his lips and Richie laughs, it hurts his head. It hurts Eddie’s too. Normally, his laugh feels like sunlight.

“You _ wish _ I wanted you! Maybe in your dreams you can hop on the Tozier Train but last night I was hammered.”

“Then wuh-what is it?” Bill asks. Richie’s smile fades right away.

“I don’t know,” he says, “I just make stupid decisions sometimes.” Bill frowns at him, not good enough of an answer until Richie quickly, almost subtly, glances at Eddie. Then, it’s good enough.

“I’m gonna go back to bed,” Eddie says. He stands up just a little too fast and feels dizzy, hand racing to find the steadiness of the chair behind him, but doesn’t slow. “I’ve got too much of a headache to not be sleeping right now.” He doesn’t wait for a response either, walking down the cobblestone path as fast as he can manage. Richie isn’t far behind, running up beside him and throwing an arm around his shoulders.

“Hey, are we okay?” He smells like the remnants of smoke and watered-down booze, the stench clinging to his clothes even in the outside air. Eddie tries not to think of the obvious reason he hasn’t changed and never came back to his room; something in him burns with the idea. The glimpses caught of the marks on his collarbones are enough to make his stomach twist.

“Would I be talking to you if we weren’t?” 

“Okay, smartass,” Richie rolls his eyes, “do you wanna have a lazy day? Bill’s got work.” He barely has to ask. They go to his building and check-in without much else to say. It isn’t until he tries to sit next to him that Eddie stops him with an ultimatum: shower or sleep on the floor. He picks the shower, grabbing clothes he deems clean enough by smelling them. Eddie has an episode of their show ready to start by the time he comes back. It only takes twenty minutes of watching for Richie to get comfortable, pushing the futon down to be flat and grabbing blankets from his bed.

“D’ya got something for my head? Feels like my brain’s gonna explode,” Eddie says. He gets a lazy gesture toward the desk.

“Just find it in there, I don’t wanna get up.” His muscles ache when he stands and it takes far too much effort to find it in the junkyard that is the miscellaneous drawer — condoms, scrawled out phone numbers above various guys’ names, and bright orange pill bottles entirely full. He doesn’t ask about the latter.

★★★

** _— messages: LOSERS CLUB (3) —_ **

** _Big Bill [1:08 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ im so bored _ _  
_ ** _Big Bill [1:08 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ lets do something _

** _Haystack [1:10 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Don’t you have an essay due tonight? _

** _Big Bill [1:11 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ yep which is precisely why i wanna do something else _

** _Eds [1:13 AM]:_ ** _  
_ _ i’ll do whatever.  
_ ** _Eds [1:13 AM]:_ ** _  
_ _ Stan and i are gonna strangle each other if we have to  
_ _ study for another minute. _

** _Trashmouth [1:14 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Y’all fuckers wanna go to the diner once it’s open? _

** _Baberly [1:15 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ what a romantic invitation, Richie. _

** _Trashmouth [1:17 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ What can I say, I’m a real charmer _

** _Eds [1:17 AM]:_ ** _  
_ _ i’ll go if you’re paying. _

** _— messages: Trashmouth —_ **

** _Eds [1:18 AM]:_ ** _  
_ _ dude. _

** _Trashmouth [1:19 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ What? _

** _Eds [1:20 AM]:_ ** _  
_ _ how are you still awake rn?  
_ ** _Eds [1:20 AM]:_ ** _  
_ _ i stg you’ve been up for like two days straight. _

** _Trashmouth [1:20 AM]:_****_  
_ ** _ 4 days  
_ ** _Trashmouth [1:21 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ And I don’t know, I’ve been really busy  
__**Trashmouth [1:21 AM]: ** **   
**Haven't had enough down time to be tired_

** _— messages: LOSERS CLUB (3) —_ **

** _Mikey [1:21 AM]:_****_  
_ ** _ I’ll go regardless. _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [1:23 AM]:_****_  
_ ** _ same here _

** _Eds [1:24 AM]:_ ** _  
_ _ you two are too nice. _ _  
_ ** _Eds [1:24 AM]:_ ** _  
_ _ he’ll do it if he’s bored enough. _ _  
_ ** _Eds [1:25 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ i’ve gotten tons of free milkshakes that way. _

** _Big Bill [1:27 AM]:_****_  
_ ** _ thats just cuz richie loves you__  
_ ** _Big Bill [1:27 AM]:_****_  
_ ** _ ill go tho _

** _Haystack [1:29 AM]:_****_  
_ ** _ I asked him to go to a Friday Night Firepit with me once  
_ _ and he said he would for five bucks. _ _  
_ ** _Haystack [1:29 AM]:_****_  
_ ** _ I’ll go too. _

** _Eds [1:31 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ your theory implies that Richie’s capable of any  
_ _ feelings besides hunger and horniness. _

** _Trashmouth [1:32 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Exactly, Eds! _ _  
_ ** _Trashmouth [1:32 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ You know I’m just tryna get in your pants _

**_Totally Smitten Stan [1:34 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ buy him a milkshake and it just might work_

** _— messages: Totally Smitten Stan —_ **

** _Eds [1:35 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ fuck off, Staniel. _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [1:37 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ c’mon you know i’m teasing  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [1:37 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ you’re not even his type anyway _

** _Eds [1:38 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ wtf does that mean?  
_ ** _Eds [1:39 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ what even is his type exactly? _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [1:40 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ idk, probably Bill? if he weren’t gay i’d say Beverly  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [1:40 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ i kinda thought they had something going on when i  
_ _ saw them interact _

** _Eds [1:42 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ he doesn’t like Bill. _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [1:44 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ oh yeah ‘cause i make out with my best friends even  
_ _ though i don’t like them _

** _Eds [1:45 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ you don’t make out with your best friends at all. _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [1:46 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ i’m just saying i don’t get it  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [1:46 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ how could he not like Bill if we literally saw them swap  
_ _ spit like two weeks ago? _

** _Eds [1:47 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ because they were drunk???  
_ ** _Eds [1:47 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ and Richie just seems to make poor decisions in  
_ _ general like it’s hardwired in his DNA.  
_ ** _Eds [1:48 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ or maybe Bill just wanted to know if he’d feel anything. _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [1:49 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ i mean maybe but i still think it’s suspicious _

** _Eds [1:50 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ whatever. _

** _— messages: LOSERS CLUB (4) —_ **

** _Baberly [1:50 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ nah, Eddie seems more like the sugar baby type. _ _  
_ ** _Baberly [1:51 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ he’ll want way more than just a milkshake to let Richie  
_ _ climb into his bed. _

** _Big Bill [1:53 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ can you blame him _ _  
_ ** _Big Bill [1:53 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ think of the mess thatd be _

** _Eds [1:54 AM]:_ ** _  
_ _ what? Richie getting laid? _ _  
_ ** _Eds [1:55 AM]:_ ** _  
_ _ sounds more fictional than messy. _

** _Trashmouth [1:56 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ HEY _ _  
_ ** _Trashmouth [1:56 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ I BET I FUCK MORE THAN ANY OF YOU _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [1:59 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Mike pulls and you know it, Tozier _

** _Haystack [2:00 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Why do we always end up here? _

** _Mikey [2:00 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Why do you all think I’m some sort of sex god? _

** _Eds [2:02 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ it’s always the quiet ones you gotta look out for, Mikey.  
_ _ you’re freaky and we all know it. _

** _Baberly [2:03 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ bet that Stan’s the kinkiest one of us all. _ _  
_ ** _Baberly [2:03 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ he might seem innocent but i stg he’s into shit some of  
_ _ us have never even heard of. _

** _Eds [2:04 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ she ain’t wrong. _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [2:06 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ fuck off i bet Richie’s into worse shit than me _

** _Big Bill [2:07 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ well  
_ ** _Big Bill [2:07 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ you guys know what this means _

** _Haystack [2:10 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Are we seriously going to talk about our kinks? _

** _Baberly [2:11 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ absolutely. _

** _Mikey [2:12 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ I have a feeling by the end of this I won’t be able to  
_ _ look some of you in the eye. _

** _Eds [2:13 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ same. _

** _Trashmouth [2:15 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ We could get the weirdest shit outta the way first _

** _Big Bill [2:15 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ round robin style _

** _— messages: Trashmouth —_ **

** _Eds [2:16 AM]:_ ** _  
_ _ do you wanna hang out? _

** _Trashmouth [2:17 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Yeah, of course  
_ ** _Trashmouth [2:17 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Wanna go to our spot? _

** _Eds [2:19 AM]:_ ** _  
_ _ yeah.  
_ ** _Eds [2:20 AM]:_ ** _  
_ _ i can be there in a few. _

** _Trashmouth [2:21 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ You okay?  
_ ** _Trashmouth [2:21 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Do you want me to bring snacks? _

** _Eds [2:22 AM]:_ ** _  
_ _ i’m not hungry.  
_ ** _Eds [2:23 AM]:_ ** _  
_ _ and i’m fine, just need a distraction. _

** _Trashmouth [2:25 AM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Oh okay, yeah_  
** _Trashmouth [2:28 AM]:_ ** **  
**_I’m on my way_

★★★

They have been trying to finish this scene for hours and, each time without fail, Richie stumbles on a line or forgets what’s next. Ire has been building up in his chest like cement slathered between layers of bricks, he doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. Sometimes it’s because he gets too caught up in his own head to remember where he left off, thinking about things he has to do or plan out. Other times it’s Eddie’s fault, he looks up from the script too absent-mindedly, catching a random glimpse of Richie — curly hair falling into his eyes from weeks of growing it out — and feeling his thoughts disperse as quickly as the foam in waves crashing against the shore. Neither of them can seem to think straight and both of them notice it.

“I don’t even know if I’m good enough to play this part,” Richie mutters under his breath, flipping through the pages loudly and obnoxiously. He’s doing it, in part, just to watch Eddie get annoyed with him, to see his fingers dig into the neon blue fabric of the couch and his eyes flicker to his face. Some part of it is true. Eddie, of course, knows all of the reasons and still has the same response for them.

“You’re full of shit.” A smile pulls on the corners of his lips and he can see Richie stand again, ducking to avoid hitting his head on the slats of the bed; he wonders how many times he’s forgotten to do it and ended up cursing at a piece of furniture. He’d pay a lot of money to see a supercut of it all, if he had any. He doesn’t know why Richie keeps his room like this in the first place, the bed high up as if it’s a top bunk and the futon underneath; he argues that it feels like a secret clubhouse but Eddie thinks he’s too stubborn to rearrange anything now that he’s been told how ineffective the setup is. Maybe it’s a little of both, he knows he’s willful but he knows how childish he is too.

“Alright. One more time,” Richie groans. He quickly looks over his lines before rolling up the script and shoving it in his back pocket. “Whenever you’re ready, Eddie Spaghetti.” He grins ear to ear, still proud of the rhyme like it's just thought up each time. It vanishes soon after, Eddie can see him spiraling into the character; finding it within himself to be another person for the time being. _ A confession, _ Richie had told him. _ This scene is a confession. There's a weight on my shoulders I can’t carry anymore and, as much as it scares me, I have to pry it off. _ Something about it, Eddie knows exactly what, chips away at his soul. He dives into the scene anyway.

“You wanna tell me what the fuck that was?” He tries to sound angry, not knowing the context of what he’s referencing; he’s still not good at this. Richie starts staring out the window, as if the view is really a garden outside of a wedding reception and distant sounds of people having fun are truly echoing past his ears.

“It was nothing,” Richie says coldly, a little too firm for the words to be believed. His hands fumble to find the pockets of the jacket he’s supposed to be wearing, remembering he forgot to grab it. Fluid, natural movements; Eddie can almost pretend they aren’t in Richie’s dorm practicing a scene, but are standing in cool April air with unspoken words humming between them. He doesn’t envy whatever situation the characters are in — tense and strained, about to explode like a powderkeg. He’s been feeling that way lately, wanting nothing more than for it to go away. Being around Richie is beginning to feel like walking through a minefield; if he steps in the wrong spot, the entire thing can blow apart.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t know what to tell you then,” Richie shrugs, or almost does. He gives up halfway through like it isn’t worth the effort.

“Frankie, talk to me,” Eddie says. He can never get used to using another name during these things, it feels wrong to call him something else. Richie finally turns toward him and holds his breath, debating and debating in his head. Whatever he’s thinking over, he decides to go for it. He shuffles to the couch and sits down next to Eddie, their hands are so close. _ It’s just pretend, _ Eddie thinks. But, Richie looks at him and he feels one of his walls splinter. Honey brown eyes, languid and warm, with a ghost of a smile on his pink lips; the music lulling from the speaker gets more distant. It’s just them — whatever they are — and this room. His heart bleeds, he can feel the warmth spread across his chest and hopes, for a moment, Richie can’t tell simply from being so close to him.

“I have to tell you something.” His voice is tiptoeing around the truth, trying not to acknowledge the importance of the words he desperately wants to say. “It’s...it’s a lot.”

“You can tell me anything,” Eddie says. He means it with every part of him, no thought or hesitation for this line. He doesn’t have to act, he’s not quite sure if Richie does either. The first time they ran through this, the sincerity in Eddie’s voice took Richie out of the scene for a while.

“I know.” Breathless, Eddie can feel the heat from Richie’s body radiating off him before his hand rests on his thigh. _ It’s just pretend. _ This is the farthest they’ve made it so far, at least without messing up. He knows what’s supposed to happen next. The characters kiss. _ It’s just pretend. _ Richie promised he won’t actually do it. He saw the wariness in his expression upon reading through and said it almost immediately. _ It’s just pretend. _Eddie's not even sure he'd care if he breaks that promise. He doesn’t know, not when they’re so close like this — a slight move and the gap can close. A slight move and things can change. _ It’s just pretend. _

“Richie, you’re really scaring me.” Eddie mumbles, pleading and soft. He only notices he used the wrong name when Richie’s expression cracks, just for a moment before he’s back in character again. At least, he thinks. _ It’s just pretend. _ His hand burns into Eddie’s thigh, his fingers curling against the rough denim folds of his jeans. _ It’s just pretend. _ The gap starts to close. _ It’s just pretend. It’s just pretend. It’s just pretend. _

“I’ve loved you for years,” Richie whispers, his lips just barely brush against Eddie’s when he does. The words cause a snap somewhere in Eddie’s chest; as if, in another life, they were childhood friends who spent years pining after one another and this, finally, is the breaking point. He can’t breathe, maybe from holding his breath and maybe from panic for what he wants to do. It sounds too real. It _ feels _ too real. Energy hums in the air, electric and dizzying. Richie’s eyes search his, looking for something, before they close and his other hand finds his cheek, he leans in and their lips meet. Eddie’s brain goes haywire, screaming and scrambling to do _ something. _ He grabs Richie’s shirt, pulling him closer, and the taste of mojito chapstick is enough to send chills down his spine.

And, before he can let his guard down, his mother’s voice roars in his veins — searing and pounding and painful. _ Sickly boy. _ He pushes Richie away and stares at him, full of bewilderment and fear. _ Filthy boy. _ It’s silent. _ Delicate boy. _ All he can do is stare until he feels his hand fly up and he brings it down across Richie’s cheek. _ Weak boy. _ There’s a bright red, stinging mark left behind. _ Broken boy. _ Richie touches it, his fingers finally moving from Eddie’s thigh, and he laughs. It slices through the throbbing silence like a knife. The scene gets fucked up again. Maybe the slap was supposed to be part of it, but Eddie wasn’t pretending; he hopes Richie knows.

“Wow, I didn’t think you were gonna go for it like that,” he says, eyes shining, “I kinda forgot what we were doing, actually.” Eddie stands up and the smile deteriorates, his entertained expression along with it.

“You said you wouldn’t do that,” he says, trying to find something to do with his hands. He starts pacing, about ready to run a rut into the floor. “You promised.” Shame and guilt and fury. His mother’s voice is louder than his beating heart. _ Diseased boy. _There’s too much to think about, too much to process. It’s overwhelming. He’s finally misstepped.

“I know, I just thought you—”

“What the fuck, Richie! You can’t just do shit like that.” He feels tears so badly wanting to fall, but he won’t let them. _ Sickly boy. Filthy boy. Delicate boy. _ He will not cry and he will not bend. He refuses. “Did you think I would just let it slide? Or that you could just pretend it was a joke? I’m not like you, I’m not a—” His voice is gone, a hand flying over his mouth while he stops mid-step. He can feel his hand shaking, completely unsteady, while vertigo has him ready to faint. And, suddenly, Eddie hates himself more than he ever has. He hates every last part of himself, overwhelmed with abhorrence, and would gladly die if it means he could forget the word he almost spat out. The look on Richie’s face _ haunts _ him. Fear and hurt and anger. He’s never seen someone look so broken.

“You should go,” he whispers, barely able to be heard. “I don’t wanna be around you right now. I can’t—I can’t even look at you.” His whole body is shaking, gripping the rolled-up script tight enough to turn his fingers white.

“Richie, I’m so sorry,” he tries.

“Get out.” He’s harsher this time. His eyes are glassy and he’s staring at the floor. Eddie’s never seen him cry, not for real. As he sees the tears roll down his cheeks, he will not bend. So, he breaks instead. _ “GET OUT!” _ Richie shouts, voice breaking toward the end as he throws the script on the floor and chokes back a sob. The pages go everywhere. He collapses against the bedpost, hugging it like it can keep him on his feet, Eddie sees it from the corner of his eye. He shuts the door behind him and races toward the stairwell they use for fire drills.

The stairs are cold and concrete, he can hear his shoes slap against them as he tries to run, mind frenzied with guilt and fear, but somewhere along the way he misses a step and falls. Stings and scrapes and skins; he curses when he lands. There’s blood — a decent amount of it — but he can’t make himself care. Not right now. He has to get out. He stands despite the pain and keeps going, a little slower this time, while his body screams at him with each move he makes. He doesn’t know when he starts crying, he only knows he is when he feels the cool air against his wet cheeks. Tears burn and blur, the street lights are blinding stars when he finally gets to the sidewalk. He thinks the alarm might have been set off, he doesn’t look back to check. Every sound is distant, submerged underwater and muffled in mud.

Eddie doesn’t know where he’s going, but he doesn’t care. His first thought, one that manages to steal the air from his lungs, is the spot on the hill. He pushes it away and his legs carry him as far as they can, giving out from under him when he can’t make it a single step further. He’s in his room, he doesn’t remember walking there or signing back in. But, it’s unmistakable; he hopes he didn’t wake Stan. Guilt and shame go through him. Memories of Richie resurface and he feels like he can’t breathe. His hands search for the inhaler not there and a shudder ripples through him. He doesn’t need it. He isn’t sick. He tries to believe it.

_ Why is he like this?  
__Why did he say that?   
__What the fuck is wrong with him? _

He wanted to kiss Richie. He _ liked _ kissing him.

Realization sweeps over him and he wants to do something — to feel something, to touch something, to break something. Every second is unbearable, full of loathing and cracked hearts. His fourteen year old self’s heart breaks, realizing he’ll never be able to come to terms with who he is. His sixteen year old self’s heart breaks, fearing his dirty secret will get out. His eighteen year old self’s heart breaks, flooded with hurt and longing from years of being alone. And, a strange mix of them all, his twenty year old heart breaks right now. He can feel it happening, how it wants to sing and scream at the same time.

Richie Tozier gave him his first kiss.

Eddie sobs, it burns like hot coals being shoved down his throat. He crumbles, a heap of tears and wavy hair and the jacket Richie left him — the one he finally got the courage to start wearing. It still smells like him. His hands are clattering bones and cold skin. Everything is cold until he feels someone touch his shoulder.

“You’re okay,” Stan says softly, “I’m right here.” He sits beside him and opens his arms; Eddie’s in them in a second, crying into his shoulder and mumbling incoherent things. He doesn’t even remember leaving his door unlocked. He doesn’t remember anything but the look on Richie’s face — the broken, twisted look on his face. He hasn’t seen that much pain in anyone. He hopes he never sees it again.

“I hurt him,” Eddie cries, trying so desperately to gasp for air. No breath is deep enough, they all end up shallow. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to. I _ broke _ him.” The words tumble out like water from a burst dam. He’s a mess. “What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m such a fucking trainwreck, why the fuck does anybody stick around? Why do _ you _stick around?”

“Breathe, Eddie.” His thumb brushes against his jawline, some attempt at comfort wasted on him right now. “Everything’s okay, just breathe for me.” He counts to four, holds for four, and counts to four again; he keeps doing it. Eddie tries to time himself, trying and failing. It takes a long time before he can gather the will to speak. It feels like hours, and it probably is, of controlled breathing and uncontrolled crying.

“Richie kissed me,” he says softly. Stan’s expression shifts, he doesn’t seem surprised. “I slapped him and I yelled at him and then I said something horrible. I saw the look on his face. I’ve never seen somebody look like that.” The tears start up again and he buries himself in Stan’s chest. His knees hurt, too long a time spent sitting on the tile floor.

“What did you say?” Stan asks. He almost knows already and he doesn’t want to be right. Eddie just stares, sitting up and trying to slow his heart. He shakes his head, he doesn’t believe him. “You didn’t say that. You didn’t. That’s not—” There’s less space between his words, less comfort. “It's not you.”

“I did. I mean, I almost did. But, it’s not like it mattered. It still popped into my head,” Eddie says. Stan looks at him like he’s a stranger. He doesn’t blame him.

“Is this another thing like the harbor?” He hasn’t forgotten, a celebration for Stan’s birthday that ended in hysterics. It was just supposed to be a day at the harbor, with good food to eat while they watched the ships come and go. He doesn’t remember how it got bad. Too many people in one place, a phone call from his mother, smothering under the weight of too much stress. Eddie snapped like a twig. He’d never lashed out before, not around Stan. It was bad, but at least it ended well; sitting by the water and telling life stories, the first time he’s told anybody about his mother. This won’t be like that, Eddie’s sure of it.

“Worse. Things got so fast and it was part of the scene, but we didn’t make it there before. He promised we weren’t gonna do it but then there was…there was chemistry, I think.” _ Sickly boy. _ He knows. He could feel it. _ Filthy boy. _ He can’t breathe. Is he still crying? _ Delicate boy. _ The bones in his body are almost clanging together and shame weighs down his limbs. He wants to say it, but he doesn’t think he can. _ Weak boy. Broken boy. Diseased boy. _

“Eddie,” he says, his voice is so soft and careful, “are you gay?” The powder keg ignites. Years and years of repressed feelings explode with it. He remembers sitting on the bleachers during Prom, too proud to dance with a girl and too scared to ask a guy. He remembers sobbing into his pillow when he realized he likes boys. He remembers his mother’s snide comments, implying that his sicknesses all have the same root cause. He remembers trying to accept he’ll never be happy. He remembers when he started hating himself for being alive.

He can’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. Stan knows.

Eddie sobs, collapsing into his arms again. They sit there, swallowed by the dark room, and try to put the pieces back together; every time they get close to a moment of integrality, Eddie remembers the pain in Richie’s eyes and he breaks all over again. It’s all he can think of, reverberating across the insides of his skull until it’s the only thing left of his body.


	4. i mean, technically, he is right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Eddie…do you see yourself alone? Like, forever?” Richie asks. The words rip through his skin and bones. He’s never really thought about it. He’s never really noticed. Whenever he imagines his future, he is alone. He has friends, sure, but he’s never loved. He’s never in love. He’s never wanted or known or needed.
> 
> “Yeah.”
> 
> “Eds,” Richie whispers, “that’s awful.”
> 
> “I know,” he says. His voice is wobbly, he can feel his hand squeeze his own for a moment. It’s gone fast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was soooo much longer than I intended it to be but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> [this part's just for me to know i edited this chapter]

**DECEMBER**

The bean bags have been Eddie’s best investment to date, sitting on the floor for hours couldn’t be made more comfortable by any amount of blankets or pillows he or anyone else threw there. He still hates them. Richie had made the suggestion the last time he was in his dorm and then, days later and sort of in a spiral of trying to distract himself from what he did, Eddie bought the two red bean bags. He thought it’d be a good idea, he and Stan could spend their study sessions in his room instead of the bakery and stop getting distracted whenever Ben’s working a shift (because, what, are they not gonna talk to him?).

But, when he passes them on his way out the door every morning, Eddie realizes he hates them — because Richie will never know about them. He will never sprawl out across both of them and hear Eddie complain about having nowhere to sit. He will never fall asleep mid-paragraph while they edit each other’s papers, curls smushed against the maroon cotton since his lack of sleep finally caught up with him. He will never spend the night again, begged to stay because they drank a little too much for them to feel safe with him walking back alone.

It’s been days. It’s been seventeen silent, melancholic weeks with no answers to texts and moving to the opposite side of the classroom whenever Eddie tries to sit even remotely close to him. He can’t count how many times he’s apologized, how he’s tried to explain _ why _ he reacted that way without telling him the entire truth. The truth haunts him, a little less since he’s finally told Stan but thrums loud in his brain all the same. He can’t blame Richie if he never wants to see him again. He would never see himself again too, if he could. The things he said keep him up in the late hours of the night and cut into his skin. How is he any better than his mother? He might as well let her treat him how she wants.

Eddie’s showdown with the bean bags get interrupted when Stan throws open his door and stares at him. His eyes burn into his soul, fingers wrapped tightly around a glowing phone with the words _ Gazebos & Placebos _ at the top. There’s a pit in Eddie’s stomach; he knows exactly what’s coming. He’s not sure what else he expected either. He knows he reads every column piece, one of the only twenty or so people who do.

“We need to talk,” Stan says. It isn’t a suggestion. Eddie looks up at him from his spot on the floor, reluctant to move, but he does anyway. They sit in the bean bags, the damned comfortable bean bags. “I read it all.”

“And?” He knows which lines he’s talking about. On secrets and the poison they bring, seeping in between him and the ones he loves. He wrote it about what happened. It’s all that consumes his mind; not even a cup of coffee in the morning because he doesn’t want to see Beverly. She, more than anyone else, hates him for what he’s done and isn’t afraid to let him know. She seems even more upset than Richie is, if it's possible.

“And you need to fix things with Richie.”

“We both know that's not gonna happen,” Eddie says, “he won’t even look at me.” He can see Stan grimace and knows there's something he isn't mentioning. All he has to do is look at him and he breaks. He’s never been good at keeping secrets, not from him at least.

“I talked to him. I wanted to start a dialogue between you two. It didn’t go very well.” Something about his voice is anticipating. His fingers fidget with the pendant on his necklace, running over each point. Tension bubbles in Eddie’s chest, it travels down his arms and gnaws at his nerves until his hands clench into fists. He knows Stan sees and he wants him to. How could he go behind his back? “I think if Richie knows you’re gay, then maybe—”

“You had no fucking right to tell him!” Eddie explodes, his head drops and his hands pull at his hair. It aches and hurts, but he keeps pulling. “It’s my secret to tell and I didn’t want him to know! I didn’t want _ anyone _ to know — not even you.” He can feel the tears threatening to fall. He doesn’t want them to, they burn when he shuts his eyes and drip down his cheeks. He’s been crying a lot lately. It feels like he’s been taking aspirin every day to keep the headaches away; he’s never drank so much water in his life, afraid of getting dehydrated. It's a spine-chilling familiarity to when his mom loaded him up with medications.

“I didn’t tell him,” Stan says softly, almost scared. He doesn’t think Eddie's ever yelled at him before. Maybe at the harbor, but his memory about the actual breakdown is fuzzy. “Do you really mean that? You’re never gonna come out?”

“No,” Eddie says. His voice isn’t as firm as he wants it to be. The idea terrifies him more than anything else he can think of. More than hospitals, more than getting sick, more than dying. “I don’t know. In a perfect world, yes. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get past all the shit she’s said to me. I’ve been trying, but her voice is always in my head.” He hasn’t told anyone about this before. He hasn’t even written about it before, not in full depth. Stan seems to know exactly who he’s talking about, he knows about Sonia to one degree or another. Nobody knows everything except Eddie. _ I can talk to him about this, _ he decides.

“What did she say?”

“What didn’t she say? After I confronted her about the bullshit medications, there were no holds barred. I told her I wasn’t sick and she said I was, said everything wrong with me was caused by the same thing.” Those words keep echoing in his bones, traveling up his limbs to his heart. _ You’ve always been different. _ His heart falters, among the reverberation, and changes pace to match. _ I’ve known for a while, there’s something in you that’s not normal. _ He can’t tell how long it’s been silent, he thinks maybe forever. _ I’ve been trying for years to help you get better. _ The words stop when he feels Stan grab his wrist. He realizes he hasn't finished the story.

“I screamed at her when she said it, told her I wasn’t what she thought and I wasn’t sick. I refused to take any more of the pills and that was it. I guess she won in the end.” He frowns, pulling at the fabric of his sweatshirt and sighing. He’s trying to avoid the look in Stan’s eyes. Pity and sympathy and sadness. He resents it. “I was already scared to confront it, you know? She just enforced it — dissuading me from hanging out with others boys, making snide comments if I ever did, trapping me in the house.” And that’s the minor stuff. He doesn’t know if he can talk about the worst of it all, so he decides not to. “It was a miracle I ended up getting to come here. I told her I was majoring in business, I lie about having classes in the winter so I don’t have to see her.”

"Is that why you always leave after me?" Stan asks softly. He doesn't need a vocal answer, shoulders slumping. “I didn’t know how bad she was.”

“I don’t like talking about it.”

“Do you think you’ll ever be happy with yourself?” The question hits Eddie hard, slamming into his chest like a wrecking ball would a condemned building. He’s never thought about it before. His stunned silence is enough of an answer. “Well, regardless, you and Richie should work things out. He seemed really hurt when I talked to him and—”

“You crossed a line, Stan. It’s none of your business,” Eddie says, his voice shakes.

“I know, but your happiness is important to me,” he pauses, glancing over at him and taking a deep breath, “you were happy when things with Richie were going well, Eddie. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so happy the whole time I’ve known you.” 

“Don’t,” Eddie warns. He can feel more tears. “I don’t like him.” He can't. How could he find happiness in the one thing he’s been made to believe he can’t? “I _ don’t,” _he snaps. It makes Stan flinch. He looks at him, dark eyes full of sadness and expression softening.

“Are you sure?” he asks carefully, but it’s not what he really means. _ You can tell me anything, _ is what he wants to say, _you don’t have to keep dealing with things alone. _

“Yes,” Eddie says coldly, staring right into Stan’s eyes and not shying away. But, he isn’t sure. He wishes he could figure things out, stop feeling the influence from his mother, and just be at ease with himself. Stan sighs, standing up and heading to the door. Eddie knows he doesn’t believe him, but he’s going to drop it anyway. He stands too, waiting in the middle of the room to be left alone.

“You know you don’t have to be fixed, right? You’re fine the way you are.” The door shuts behind him and the sound it makes, slamming against the frame, is as loud as the screaming in Eddie’s head.

★★★

** _— messages: Mikey (1) —_ **

** _Mikey [4:43 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ You should come to the show anyway. Everyone else _ _  
_ _ is coming and it’d mean a lot to him even if he won’t _ _  
_ _ say so. _

** _Eds [4:47 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ do i have to? _

** _Mikey [4:49 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Look, Stan said you have to and I’m not about to argue _ _  
_ _ with him. You don’t even have to talk to Richie — or _ _  
_ _ anyone if you don’t want. Just show up. He said you’re _ _  
_ _ the whole reason he got the part in the first place. _ _  
_ _ Wouldn’t it feel kind of fucked up if you didn’t watch? _

** _Eds [4:50 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ fine. _

Eddie shuts his phone off again and sighs, flopping back onto his bed and staring at the ceiling draped with fairy lights. He’s read over the texts a good seven times upon getting them, but the idea doesn't get any easier. He knows he should go. He knows he’s going to end up there anyway because Stan isn’t taking no for an answer. He makes comments about trudging through the snow just to walk with him there, the guilt would eat him alive if he made him walk alone. He knows it too.

And the walk to the theatre _ is _ unbearable; every year it’s like they forget how fucking cold Boston gets in the winter. Snow falling fast and frigid wind almost slicing open his skin, Stan complains with him the entire way and the heat upon walking inside is euphoric. Everyone is there, like Mike told him they would. There isn't any tension or bitter words, but something hangs heavily in the air; everyone knows what happened and Beverly is only being polite so as not to ruin Richie's night. They pile into their seats, all in the front row, and wait for the curtains to open. He sits next to Stan, the only one of the Losers who doesn’t seem to hate him. He knows that isn’t fair to Mike, but he seems to have drawn back from him too. He understands.

“Bev, yuh-you said you weren’t going to guh-get the flowers,” Bill frowns. They must have agreed not to get gifts beforehand, Eddie guesses. He left their group chat a while ago; he knows when he’s not wanted.

“You said you weren’t gonna get the card.” She grins, glancing at the envelope in his hands while he stuffs it into his pocket and tries to hide the pink in his cheeks. Richie said something about the two of them before, Eddie can’t remember what it is. He doesn’t have the time to try, the lights dim and the curtain opens. The first thing he sees is a classroom, desks scattered and a few people crying. He remembers what Richie'd said, it's supposed to be a tragedy.He feels himself reaching for Stan’s hand, who doesn’t hesitate to take it and doesn’t let go no matter how upsetting the scenes get.

Richie, unsurprisingly, is breathtaking. He steals everyone’s attention with each scene he’s in — and that’s a lot of them. He knows all of them are supposed to seem happy and nostalgic, but Eddie can see the sadness hidden and laced throughout. The friends of the main character, Richie’s character, going to find the people he’s interacted with last and trying to piece together what could’ve happened; he can understand the ending already. It isn’t hard to watch, until about halfway through where the set changes for another flashback scene and he can’t breathe. It’s _ the _ scene. His grip on Stan’s hand tightens. The person the friends found for this scene is someone only briefly mentioned, Eddie’s pretty sure he saw him in the background earlier, and he talks about a wedding reception he went to with Richie’s character. He didn’t know it was supposed to be a _ guy. _

“You wanna tell me what the fuck that was?” He’s angry, much angrier than Eddie ever sounded when he said it. Maybe because he knows what happened; Richie’s character got too drunk and said something he shouldn’t have. But, Richie doesn’t need to get drunk to do say something bad and, apparently, neither does Eddie.

“It was nothing.” Richie is cold, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets and staring at a street lamp on the other end of the stage. The guy sits down on the bench nearby and sighs. Maybe the character’s used to it. He suddenly can’t remember the backstory.

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t know what to tell you then,” Richie snaps, glancing back at him and then back to the street lamp. His shoulders are tense and his hands are shaking. Eddie knows that part is new. Everything starts to get hot. He pulls his hand away from Stan’s and shimmies out of his jacket. He has to wipe his hand on his shirt to get rid of the sweat.

“Frankie, talk to me,” the guy, Eddie thinks the character’s name is Alex, pleads. Richie finally looks at him and hesitates, waiting for a long time before sitting down on the bench next to him. Eddie’s throat closes. He knows what happens next. He knows. How could he forget?

“I have to tell you something. It’s a lot.” He’s scared, fear dripping from his shaky voice.

“You can tell me anything,” he says. It doesn’t sound the same as when Eddie did. He doesn’t really mean it. Not like he does.

“I know.” His hand rests on his thigh. Something eats at Eddie’s mind. Something green.

“Frankie, you’re really scaring me.” The gap starts to close.

“I’ve loved you for years,” Richie whispers. Hearing him say it to somebody else feels wrong. Eddie hates himself for thinking it. But, then, Richie kisses the guy and he feels like somebody sucker-punched him in the stomach. It doesn’t last as long. The kiss, that is. Alex pushes Richie away and hits him. He _ hits _ him. It’s almost more than Eddie can take.

“What the fuck!” he screams. Richie, crumpled on the ground and holding his cheek with fear in his eyes, just stares up at him. He looks horrified.

“I thought…”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

“Alex, please—”

“Leave,” he says, cold and full of hatred. Eddie can’t do it. He gets up and races out, not bothering to care about being loud when the door slams or take his jacket with him for the cold. He’s hiding behind the side of the building, freezing and shivering, when he feels the panic set in. It starts in his chest, thumping with his heart like a steam hammer, and travels down his legs. His knees wobble and his calves twitch, he can’t tell if it’s the cold or the anxiety.

“Eddie?” He hears Beverly call for him. Her head pokes from around the building and her bright hair interrupts the white blanket on the ground around them. _ Of course, _ he thinks. She couldn’t have not noticed him leave. He’s almost surprised she followed him. “What’s wrong?” She stands beside him and offers his jacket, he could marry her for bringing it.

“Nothing.”

“You’re crying.”

“Why does it matter? Don’t you hate me right now, anyway?” He slips the jacket over his shoulders and buries himself in it. Richie’s jacket. It doesn’t smell like him anymore, none of them do; it isn’t like he can get any new ones. Beverly doesn’t disagree with him, but something in her expression says she doesn’t necessarily agree either. “He _ kissed _ him,” he says. The cold wind bites as it sings. Something in him hurts. It hurts and it hurts and it hurts.

“I know, it’s part of the—” She sees the tears starting to form, the look in his eyes says everything. “Oh,” she says, “oh my god, Eddie.” He thinks he should be used to it, at least after the first time, but it doesn’t get easier. There’s still humiliation, there’s still shame, there’s still fear. The way she stares at him, waiting for him to tell her if she’s right or wrong, burns holes through his skin.

“Don’t tell anybody,” he says, breathless.

“I won’t.” He knows already. She couldn’t hurt a soul, not for something like this. “Is that why you blew up on Richie?” She lets her voice fall softer and Eddie is reduced to tears, he can’t help it. He tries, desperately, to muster up a simple nod. Everything makes sense.

“I’m...” He can’t do it. Focusing on steadying his heart, he takes a breath and tries again. “Yeah, it is.” Fury throbs in her veins; her anger isn’t fiery like the curls of her hair, it’s icy and frigid like the blue of her eyes.

“You yelled at him. You said—” she stops, “you _ know _ what you did.”

“I know.” His voice is near silent and broken. He wants to ask her to pity him, to understand what he did was horrendous and forgive him anyway. But, he knows it’s too much to ask. If there’s a side to pick in any of this, Beverly will choose Richie every time. He can't blame her.

“That’s not fair to him. Do you even know what’s been going through his head?” she asks. He almost says something, but the wrath in Beverly’s eyes doesn’t let up and it stops him; he can feel the frost-burn on the edges of his soul. “He hates himself, Eddie. Even before all this shit, he was so—he was _ careful. _I heard him talk about you for weeks before I met you and all I could think about was how scared I was you’d hurt him." It’s all she has to say, but she says more.

“He called me after what happened and it took days to put him back together. He was broken. You _ broke _ him,” she spits. In her eyes are a flurry of things — disgust and outrage and conflict. “I haven’t seen him so full of energy for a while and it started when you met. He really cares about you and you just...why did you say it?” She still won’t say the word. Eddie’s glad.

“I was scared,” he says, “I’m still scared. It’s not a good reason, but I don’t have any others. I don’t want to be like this. It won’t stop. I can’t make it go away.” Something in those words makes Beverly’s anger disappear. Her heart breaks for him no matter how hard she tries not to let it. She’s seen this type of self-hatred before, he doesn’t want to know from where — though, he’s sure, he already knows.

“You can’t make yourself be straight, Eddie.”

“I wish I could.”

“But, you can’t,” she says firmly. It doesn’t help the tears rolling down his cold-kissed cheeks. The blue of her eyes is like ice slowly melting in the spring heat, it melts because of the sad, Bambi eyes glistening while they look at her. She sighs, shaking her head as if still deciding whether or not to help. “He’d understand, you know, if you explained.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“Try. You said it to me.”

“I didn’t say it.”

“And yet I knew.”

“Bev.” He stares at her.

_ “Eddie.” _ She stares back, not blinking and not backing down. He can feel the insistence. “Take the flowers I brought, go backstage, find the dressing room, and fix this.” She doesn’t say anything else. They walk back into the theatre and finish the show after the intermission ends. Richie, once again unsurprisingly, gets a standing ovation during the curtain call. Eddie swears he looks at him, but doesn’t have a moment to dwell on it before Beverly shoves the bouquet of roses toward his chest.

Everyone sees. Their eyes linger on him before the uniform realization comes across their faces. They know he’s going to try. Stan, more than anyone else, looks scared instead of annoyed. Eddie barely hears Beverly when she tells him how to get to the dressing room, but retains it regardless. He waits outside the door for a long time, watching people leave and waiting to see Richie slip through. He doesn’t. Eddie’s hands shake as he reaches for the doorknob, he tries to tell himself he can do this. He doesn’t believe it. What little courage he has vanishes upon seeing Richie — sitting at a vanity and rubbing makeup wipes across his face. He looks happy until his eyes flicker over and see Eddie standing there. He tries to hand him the flowers.

“Bev got these for you.”

“Why isn’t she giving them to me, then?” He doesn’t take them.

“'Cause we need to talk.” Eddie sets them on the edge of the vanity and backs away, leaning against the white cinderblock wall. It’s freezing against his skin, but no colder than the tone of Richie’s voice.

“Do we?” They look at one another through the mirror. There’s something in his face, something painful but relieved. He’s still trying to take the eyeliner off, but it keeps smearing across his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says.

“That all you needed to say? Because I don’t care.”

“Rich...”

“What you did really hurt me,” he whispers. He tries to sound angry, but it doesn’t work; he sounds sad. His hands grab onto the cardigan slipping off his shoulders and he gets up, pushing past Eddie and trying to yank his arm away when he grabs it. _ “Let go,” _ he hisses through his teeth.

“Please,” Eddie says. His throat feels like it’s closing up while adrenaline starts to make his muscles twitch. “If you still want nothing to do with me after this, fine. I won't bother you. I just...I need to explain myself.” He realizes this is the first time Richie’s said anything to him in weeks, or even let him near.

_ “Explain?” _Richie’s jaw sets and something in Eddie’s stomach lurches. “Explain what? That you’re totally fine with having a gay friend until he reminds you he’s gay? Or you were so offended by the idea I thought you liked me that you hit me?”

“No, it's not—”

“How can Stan even bear to be around you? Or did you not tell him what you did?”

“I told him,” Eddie says softly, “and none of that’s why it happened.” His heart beats against the inside of his ribs. _ He’d understand, you know, if you explained it to him. _He still can’t make himself do it. “It wasn’t about you. There’s stuff I’m dealing with I can’t talk about and that’s not an excuse. I still took it out on you and it was awful.”

“Eddie…”

“I want you to know I care, it _ scares _ me how much I care sometimes. I’m not used to feeling like that. Nothing I say can ever fix it and I can’t even find the right words to try to apologize because nothing will ever be enough.” Richie’s expression softens; his shoulders drop and he doesn’t pull against Eddie’s grasp. He can’t find any words, staring wide-eyed and expectant. He knows he wants to say more. “I need you to know I care and I want you to be happy. I’ve never had a friend like you before. I don’t deserve a second chance so it isn’t fair to ask for one, but I don’t want to lose you.” The words buzz in both of their bones. Is Richie even his to lose? Was he ever? The silence feels like years and years and years of a drought, praying for rain in the form of any response at all.

“Okay,” Richie finally says, feeling the fingers digging into his sleeve lighten up. He thinks he knows, but he’ll never say it out loud. “I’m still mad. I still don’t know why you did it and, shit, man, I wanna believe there’s a good reason but I don’t think there’s anything that could make me understand.” Eddie’s heart sinks. It almost breaks all over again. But, he nods. He makes a start for the door until he feels Richie grab his shoulder. “And I know I should’ve asked. I shouldn’t have assumed you’d be okay with it and it shitty to act on it, so, I’m sorry for kissing you and it’s not gonna happen again.” The last word pings across Eddie’s brain incessantly. _ Again. _Is that good or bad?

“What are you saying?”

“I just want to know why. You don’t have to tell me everything, but I want _ something.” _

“Richie, I can’t—”

“Is it about your mother?” he asks. It turns Eddie’s blood to lead, he can’t move or breathe or think. “Right, okay.” And Richie nods, almost furiously, like he’s convincing himself of something. He doesn’t ask again because he knows the answer. “I think we can still try to be friends again.” Before he can think, Eddie almost cries. He catches himself first, stifling a sharp breath and managing a smile. He doesn’t know what to say. He wants to thank him, over and over and over, but knows better.

“What are you doing for Christmas?” He tries to get rid of the emotions flooding the air, but only replaces them with stranger ones.

“Goin’ home. I’m sorta dreading it. I know it sounds kind of bad.”

“No, I get it, I’m not driving up so I can avoid the whole mess,” he says. Richie makes a face. “I always spend the holidays here,” he shrugs, pulling at the strings of his hoodie and avoiding his eyes. If he’d look up, just for a second, he’d see the decision being made behind those thick glasses.

“I’m driving home tomorrow morning,” Richie says slowly, “and I think spending the break there would be better than in your dorm.” Eddie’s jaw nearly hits the floor. He can’t let him do it. He _ just _ started talking to him again. How can he offer a space in his house?

“I can’t barge in on a holiday. I’m fine here,” he insists.

“Eds, c’mon, that’s like the saddest lie I’ve ever heard.” His heart melts upon hearing the nickname, not for the first time either. He could start crying (again). “Let’s go, dipshit. I can help you pack if you want.” They don’t say anything else. Richie grabs the roses and leads him out the side door, they walk down the snow-covered paths. It’s meaningless, boring small talk; something they outgrew before they even met, somehow the only thing they can do now. They try not to be bothered by it, ignoring the tension when Eddie signs him in and pretending things are normal while Richie helps him pack. Once the duffel bag is full, Eddie offers him his bed and he doesn’t reject it; he curls up in the sheets smelling of laundry detergent and vanilla. Eddie sleeps on the bean bags, pushed together and surprisingly comfortable, it’s the first time he’s ever loved to have them.

★★★

The Toziers’ house in Worcester is only an hour away, but they’re just twenty miles from Boston and they’ve been in the car for almost two. They severely underestimated the traffic, almost bumper to bumper for as far as they can see from where they’re idling. It moves slow, absolutely and unendurably slow. But, that isn’t the worst part. The worst part is the silence. Richie’s radio gave out months ago and he doesn’t have the money for a new one. He doesn’t have the energy to talk either, so they sit in silence. It eats Eddie alive, gnawing at his skin and tapping down his spine. He has to say something. Anything at all.

“I thought you were from Maine,” he says. His eyes are fixed on the near-white sky above; the blue is almost too pale to be seen. _ In a town twenty minutes from Derry, _ he remembers. He can hear the sigh Richie tries to hide.

“We moved.”

“Why?” Eddie glances over and sees his fingers curl around the steering wheel. He knows he’s pushing it, but he forgot his headphones and can’t deal with a Trashmouth who doesn’t talk trash. Richie rolls his eyes. At least he’s tolerating him, Eddie makes himself feel thankful. At least he’s near him at all.

“This kid from my high school, Henry Bowers, found out I was gay and beat the shit out of me and my parents got had just gotten divorced.” Richie’s voice is taut, his knuckles are almost white like the sky. It makes Eddie sick. Sometimes he forgets it means so much to other people, his mother made it seem so psychological the idea of physical threats makes him nauseous.

“Shit, man. That’s awful.”

“Yeah,” Richie says. And, then, it’s back to silence. Eddie’s chest tightens up and he looks back out the window until he hears Richie sigh again. “I didn’t tell my family you were coming.” He perks up a bit as the traffic starts to disperse, though only by a little, passing an exit so heavily backed up. “They know who you are, though. My sister does, at least. I dunno if she told anyone else.” Words can’t describe the relief Eddie feels; his parents don’t know how horrible he’s been to their son, the way he broke him and had to beg to be let back into his life. Unless Richie’s lying for his sake, he can never tell. Richie’s too good a liar for him to figure out sometimes.

“Do you think they’ll care?”

“That I didn’t tell them? Nah. I do shit like that a lot, I think they’ll just be annoyed for a few minutes. They don’t really get to see me much so there’s no room for grudges,” he says. Eddie longs to know how it feels to have a family like his. One time, he came home a minute and a half after his curfew and couldn’t leave the house again for a month. “I think they’ll like you,” he adds. It makes the lack of noise afterward seem less heavy.

“Should I get them something?” Eddie watches a smile tug on the corners of Richie’s lips. God, he’s missed his smile. It could make devils want to save their souls and gods want to condemn theirs. It still lights up his heart.

“If you really want. I was gonna stop at the mall for some last-minute shit anyway. Don’t tell them how bad a son I am.” Richie laughs and Eddie swears he could get drunk on the sound. He _ missed _ him. He still misses him and he’s sitting right there. “Take my secret to the grave, Kaspbrak. Richie Tozier still hasn’t gotten his family any presents and it’s literally Christmas Eve.” His laughter floods the car again, white-hot like pure and unattenuated sunlight.

“Lips are sealed, Trashmouth.”

“Attaboy, Spaghetti.” Richie reaches over and tousles Eddie’s hair, relishing in the way he smacks his hand away and tries to fix it. Eddie tries to ignore it, but he’s missed that too. He’s missed everything — the pasta-inspired nicknames, the way he pinches his cheeks, the ceaseless teasing, and (maybe) the dick jokes. He’s missed it all, and he’s so focused on it he doesn’t think about how Richie has the money for gifts but not for a new stereo until they’re five miles from Worcester.

The mall, of course, is utter chaos; swarms of panicky shoppers and parents trying to get their kids to take a picture with Santa, Eddie hates it the second he steps inside. He hates it even more when Richie disappears to do his own shopping. Something about better efficiency, Eddie doesn’t pay attention but he’s pretty sure it’s so he can take a break from being around him. He wanders into a card shop and grabs a simple one, something small to thank Richie’s parents for having him but still a bigger gesture than just saying it. His phone dings when he’s sitting by the fountain Richie told him to meet him at once he’s done.

** _— messages: Trashmouth (3) —_ **

** _Trashmouth [2:05 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ [UglyNeonBoots.img] _ _  
_ ** _Trashmouth [2:05 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ [UglierNeonBoots.img] _ _  
_ ** _Trashmouth [2:05 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Which pair *screams* Eddie Kaspbrak? _

** _Eds [2:06 PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ definitely the hot pink. _

** _Trashmouth [2:07 PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ You can pair it with a tasteful bolo tie _ _  
_ ** _Trashmouth [2:07 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ I asked Bev and she says I’m a fashion icon _

** _Eds [2:08 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ i know you’re kidding. _ _  
_ ** _Eds [2:08 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ but please don’t get me those. _

** _Trashmouth [2:09 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Too late :) _

A smile blooms on Eddie’s face and a pang of worry rushes through him. He hasn’t gotten Richie anything. He’s on his feet before he can think twice, speed walking past a bunch of stores until he finds one that feels right. It’s a strange, loud store with knick-knacks and posters all over the place; there's Nirvana blaring from the speakers. He peruses through the shelves for a long time, pouring over each little item until he can find the one that screams _ Richie. _ It takes forever. Nothing feels right until his gaze falls upon the shirt rack. Eddie knows, in a heartbeat, what’s perfect — an obnoxious, bright button-up looking like a wall of graffiti was turned into a shirt. He’s sure he doesn’t have it yet.

** _— messages: Trashmouth (3) —_ **

** _Trashmouth [2:23 PM]:  
_ ** _ Dude  
_ ** _Trashmouth [2:23 PM]:  
_ ** _ Did you get lost or something?  
_ ** _Trashmouth [2:23 PM]:  
_ ** _ The fountain has an alarming lack of Eddie _

** _Eds [2:24 PM]:  
_ ** _ coming. _

** _Trashmouth [2:25 PM]:  
_ ** _ That’s what I’ll have you doing tonight ;) _

** _Eds [2:25 PM]:  
_ ** _ beep beep. _

** _Trashmouth [2:26 PM]:  
_ ** _ You love it _

Eddie pays for the shirt, as well as a glass pendant colored like a night sky, and leaves; he stuffs the plastic bag into his pocket before reaching the fountain so Richie can’t see. He doesn’t ask where he went or why he’s out of breath, he throws his arm around him while they walk back to the car. The ride isn’t as quiet now that Richie’s in a joking mood again, blabbing on about the ugly boots and bolo tie he swears Eddie is going to get tomorrow. Things feel normal, or at least close to it, until they park in the driveway of Richie’s house and they have to walk up to the door. Dread forms a knot in Eddie’s stomach and his hand holds tight to the straps of his duffel bag.

“Richie!” the woman, Eddie assumes is Richie’s mom, shrieks when she opens the door. She goes to throw her arms around him but stops, glancing between them both. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing company,” she says. Not annoyed, just surprised. She hugs him, mumbling something in his ear, and gestures for them to come inside. Eddie trails behind. He can feel the strange tension, not bad but _ weird. _He wonders if it has something to do with why Richie was dreading being here.

“Sorry, Ma.” Richie smiles, grabbing Eddie’s arm and yanking him through the doorway. “This is Eddie,” he looks toward him, “Eddie, this is my mother, the delightful Maggie Tozier.”

“Maggie’s fine.”

“Thanks for having me.” Eddie tries to smile in a normal way, in an _ I’m sorry your son didn’t tell you I was coming but I’m really glad I’m here _ way. He doesn’t know if it works, but Maggie doesn’t seem to mind. She looks just like Richie; big, brown eyes like vats of honey and black curls far too rambunctious to try to tame and a mess of freckles like paint-splattered. She dresses like him too — fluorescent colors and ridiculous patterns that somehow, someway manage not to look like a dumpster fire when put all together. But, he mostly notices how young she looks, like she could barely be old enough to be a mom of someone in their early twenties.

“I’ll have to move some people around for you two. You were supposed to share your room with Dylan but I can have him sleep on the pullout with Jack. Go take your bags upstairs. Have you eaten yet?” She keeps going, fretting over little things and managing to kiss Richie’s cheek a few times before he waves her off. Vermilion lipstick leaves behind a few lip prints no one wants to mention. Eddie doesn’t get the chance to say a pullout couch or a sleeping bag on the floor would be okay. He doesn’t think Richie wants to share a room with him, let alone a bed. They climb up the stairs regardless, lugging their bags behind them and making their way to the door at the end of the hall.

Richie’s room looks nothing like Eddie expects it to. He anticipated something like his dorm — messy, disorganized, and somehow minimalistic but with no decorative direction recognizable. This only has the messy and disorganized part but, even without it, he'd know Richie's far from a minimalist decorator. There are posters covering an entire wall, barely letting the dark blue paint peek through, and random things scattered everywhere; books stacked on the floor near the sort of made bed, wilting plants on the nightstand, childhood photos taped up on a mirror with no mirror left, a collection of used-up candles on the dresser, and closet doors with words written in marker all over the panels.

“They killed my fucking plants,” Richie whines, fingers running across the drooping leaves of a monstera. On the pot is a label, Plants Armstrong. Because, of course, he names them all and, of course, he uses puns. The other plants’ labels are no different — Spruce Springsteen, Vlad the In-Planter, Fernie Mac, Leaf Erikson, and Audrey. Eddie would laugh, but he’s distracted by the sensory overload caused by all the _ stuff _everywhere. He notices. “What? You aren't, like, allergic to plants, are you?”

“Jesus, Richie, you’re a hoarder!” Eddie says, trying to focus on just one thing. He thinks there might be ticket stubs on the bulletin board, hidden beneath receipts and birthday cards. He puts his bag by the door to the bathroom, where the counter is amuck with hair products and cologne bottles long used up. If he squints, he thinks he might see the remnants of dry erase marker messages on the mirror.

“I’m _ sentimental, _ Eddie.”

“He’s definitely a hoarder.” A voice comes from the doorway and Eddie looks over to find a girl with wild black hair, he can only assume it’s Richie’s sister; in which case, she’s the only Tozier he’s met who dresses like a normal person, dare he say dresses _ well. _ The wicked smile on her face and annoyance on Richie’s is enough of a confirmation, though her eyes would give it away regardless. “I like him,” she says. She glances at her brother and gestures toward Eddie, it makes his cheeks heat up.

“Ren, insulting my lifestyle is one thing. But, being fond of Eddie is a step too far.”

“And here I thought you were sentimental,” Ren mocks him, leaning against the frame of the door and folding her arms over her chest. Eddie thinks he might adore her. “You didn’t tell me he was this cute, by the way. The poor man’s gonna have Lily and Dana drooling over him the whole time they’re here.” Richie sighs and flops face-first onto his bed, voice muffled by the comforter.

“He’s seven years older than them.”

“Like they’ll care.”

“He’s almost four years older than you.”

“Like _ I’d _ care,” she laughs. She rolls her eyes and he knows she’s kidding.

“I definitely regret bringing him here,” he groans. Eddie wonders if he’s serious, if maybe he really wishes he left him alone on campus. He doesn’t blame him. He tries not to care.

“Mom says she’s got food for you.” Ren disappears without another word and Richie sits up with another groan, almost too tired to get up but too hungry to sleep. He makes himself stand and walks right past Eddie. He follows him and still tries not to care.

Dinner with Richie’s family is exhausting and anxiety-producing. Eddie’s never been good at names and there are _ so many _ of them, cousins upon aunts upon uncles upon grandparents He can really only remember three — Maggie, Ren, and Richie’s step-dad Wentworth, who insists on Went instead. Between every introduction is a certain look, Eddie can’t figure out what it is, but Richie seems annoyed by it all the same. They ask him questions about his major and what he wants to do when he graduates, if he plans on staying near Boston and how he met Richie; it’s not difficult to talk to them or answer the things they ask until, finally, an aunt asks how his family feels about him spending the holiday without them. Eddie goes stone cold, shoulders tensing up and a sharp breath to follow. He can feel Richie squeeze his thigh from under the table but can’t make his body do anything.

“Uh, I don’t—”

“Hey, so, it’s been fun. But, I’m sure Eddie’s really tired. Right?” Richie stands up and glances at him, poking him in the back between the slats on the chair. He gets the hint and nods, nearly tripping on the rug when he’s led out the dining room. Once they’re up the stairs, Richie grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him slightly. “I’m sorry, I should’ve told them not to ask. Are you okay? You looked like you were gonna be sick.” His voice is soft. He’s not used to this tone anymore. He’s not used to him being this _ close _anymore, fingers slipping down the curves of his arms until their hands are folded together. Richie leans his head down to look at him properly, to inspect the expression on his face for any kind of clue. Eddie can feel the heat coming off his skin.

“Do you think it’s shitty I’m here?” He lets his voice fall quiet and Richie looms a little closer. It makes his knees turn to Jello.

“No,” he doesn’t hesitate, “I think you’re trying to survive in whatever way you can. Don’t feel guilty about trying to survive.” The second they hear footsteps, Richie pulls away. Maggie and Went awkwardly smile, coming down the hall to talk to them both. Richie shoves Eddie toward the door and mutters under his breath. “Go ahead, I’ll be in later.” He shuts the door once he’s inside, leaning against the door and trying to breathe.

Something in his stomach burns, his heart pounds in his chest, and this feeling is new. It’s not anxious, he knows what that is. His mind keeps wandering to Richie, flickers of his face and he realizes he can still feel his hand touching his thigh, even though it isn’t there anymore. Then, Eddie understands. He digs his fingers into his hips and tries to breathe. Maybe counting will help. He can’t have thoughts like that _ here. _ But, his mind wanders to November, to the kiss and how it sears into his brain. He wouldn’t hate doing it again. He _ wants _ to. He wonders what it'd be like — wandering hands, breathy moans, and the needy pulling at clothes. He feels his jeans get just a bit tighter.

Eddie damn near jumps when the door pushes against him. He shoves his hands in his pockets, trying to look less flustered than he is, and sees Richie giving him a strange look. He opens his mouth to say something, but Eddie talks first. He prays to every god imaginable Richie doesn’t look down.

“I need to use your shower,” he says a bit loudly. He grabs clothes from his bag and doesn’t acknowledge the confusion on Richie’s face. He slams the bathroom door shut and cranks the water to the hottest it can go, the sound already unfuzzying his brain.

“Eds,” Richie taps on the door, “you alright?”

“Yeah, just wanna shower.” He slips his hoodie over his head and tosses it toward an empty corner of the room. He peels the rest of his clothes off and steps under the burning stream of water, it almost hurts. He almost wants it to. Distantly, he can hear music lulling from a speaker. He knows it’s one of Richie’s playlists. It’s smooth and slow and sensual. Everything from today feels scorching in his veins and throbs in his brain. He’s guilty and frustrated, not sure which is stronger. But, when thoughts of kissing Richie come back and his hand slips down, he knows. It’s not like Richie could find out, he tries to reason with himself that way.

Each movement is lazy and sends a whine creeping up his throat; he has to clamp his other hand down on his mouth to shut himself up. He pretends it’s Richie touching him — how his eyes would look so hungry but his smile would look so innocent, as if he doesn’t know how good he’s making him feel. He can almost hear him whisper in his ear, calling him _ baby _ and telling him what a mess he is. The music gets louder and he wonders if Richie’s doing the same thing. He lets himself imagine that too. Laying on his bed with a hand shoved under the waistband of his sweatpants and his head pressed back into the mattress, his pink lips barely parting and how he’d softly say Eddie’s name. The mental image makes Eddie come undone. He presses his hand against his mouth and muffles the whimper so badly wanting to escape; he almost hits his head against the tile wall when his knees buckle.

The guilt is back after he’s finished, stronger than before. He manages to shower with some hot water still left and gets dressed without drying his hair, it feels better when he sleeps with it wet anyway, cooling him down. Richie’s curled up in bed when he walks in, the lights are off and the music is low; his clothes are different. Eddie climbs into bed with him and the silence is heavy. He worries, somehow, he knows what he did.

“You know why they asked you all those questions, right?” Richie asks, glancing over at him for a moment and then back at the ceiling. There are plastic stars still stuck there, hardly glowing in the dark. Eddie’s surprised it took him this long to piece together. They think they’re together. He nods. “I’m sorry. They didn’t know.”

“It’s okay.”

“I should’ve said something.”

“It’s okay,” he says again, his voice is soft and pleading. _ I understand, _ he wants to say. There’s another thought popping up, but he pushes it down. He’s allowed enough to happen today. “I guess you’ve taken guys home before, huh?”

“No,” Richie turns, rolling over onto his side and facing away from Eddie, “I’ve never really had a boyfriend before. Only flings.” He pauses, just for a second. “Have you brought any girls home?”

“No,” Eddie says. He wants to laugh, at the idea of him having a girlfriend and at the idea of his mother not scaring them away even if he _ did _ have one. He wonders, if he could ever date Richie, if she’d scare him away too. He’s sure she would. “I’ve never dated anyone either.”

“Really?”

“If I’m being honest, you were my first kiss.”

“Fuck,” Richie mutters, rolling over again to face him, “are you serious?” Eddie feels breathless, chest tightening from how close he is again. His nose brushes against his every time he breathes. He nods again. “I’m sorry.”

“At least you’re someone I care about.”

“I guess it’ll be a pretty funny story to tell your kids one day,” Richie smiles. But, it disappears when he doesn’t see a smile on Eddie’s face too. “No kids then, I'm assuming.” Eddie shakes his head. How could he ever? No matter how much he’d love them, he’d be too afraid of ending up like his mother — too afraid of fucking them up like she fucked him up. He knows he would eventually.

“At most, I’ll get married. I don’t even think I’ll do that.” It gets really quiet and Richie’s dark eyes burn through him. He looks disoriented for a moment, then realization sweeps across his face and a sadness replaces it. He looks heartbroken.

“Eddie…do you see yourself alone? Like, forever?” Richie asks. The words rip through his skin and bones. He’s never really thought about it. He’s never really noticed. Whenever he imagines his future, he _ is _ alone. He has friends, sure, but he’s never loved. He’s never _ in _ love. He’s never wanted or known or needed.

“Yeah.”

“Eds,” Richie whispers, “that’s awful.”

“I know,” he says. His voice is wobbly, he can feel his hand squeeze his own for a moment. It’s gone fast.

“You deserve the kind of love that makes you question why you thought you never needed it at all.” Richie doesn’t wait for a response, he rolls back over and tries to sleep. Eddie just lays there, staring at the ceiling and trying not to sob. The words slam into him hard, wrecking through the walls he’s built and making them turn into rubble on the ground. Once he’s sure he’s asleep, he locks himself in the bathroom and _ does _ sob — choked and muffled and trying so desperately to be silent. He’s not sure how long he’s there, but he’s careful getting back into the bed. Looking at the plastic stars, he wonders if he’ll ever let himself fall in love and, glancing over at Richie, he lets himself think _ maybe._

★★★

The entirety of the morning is a complete blur. At first, it’s an apology from the aunt who asked about Eddie’s family and stacks of blueberry waffles covered in thickly sweet syrup. It slowly turns into hoards of little cousins too excited to wait for presents and letting them loose in the living room. Somewhere among the chaos, Eddie finds a moment to give Maggie and Went the card; they’re overjoyed by it, telling him he shouldn’t have and saying they’re happy to have him — he thinks Maggie might’ve hugged him. It’s all Christmas specials, cackling kids, and small talk after. Christmas with the Toziers is unlike anything he’s ever experienced.

Eddie learns about Richie’s childhood, mostly. Despite the frown plastered to his face once the photo albums come out and the _ please don’t, Ma_’s, Maggie beams while she talks about Richie. She goes over every picture and explains the story behind it, if she can remember; Eddie’s favorite is the one from when he’s thirteen with glasses bigger than his face and hair still unruly with curls, he’s standing on the edge of a quarry and about to jump off. Something about it feels familiar and oddly like his hometown. He thinks about what it would’ve been like to grow up with Richie and the missed opportunity hangs heavy in his heart. Maggie flips the page and soon the thought is gone. He doesn’t notice there aren’t any pictures from when he was really young, only teen years and older; the most are from high school but, even then, not from the first half.

He’s jealous, if he’s being honest. Eddie’s jealous of Richie and all the things he has. He tries not to be. But, Richie has a family. He has a family who loves him and tries to help him grow into his own person, not trap him in the house and pin him to the floorboards with fake illnesses. Richie likes his childhood. He has mostly fond memories and still tries to cling to his youth, not quite wanting to grow up yet; he doesn’t pick at the stitches his hometown sewed into him on restless nights and he doesn’t romanticize daydreams of the future when the present gets to be too much. Richie can be _ himself _ — that’s the thing Eddie envies the most. His family knows who he is and he’s proud of it, never having to hide anything or tiptoe around conversations or lie about taking winter courses so he won’t have to go home. Eddie thinks about that a lot. What would it be like if he could be proud like Richie? If he could stop being scared of himself? He doesn’t know if he’ll ever find out.

Eventually, being stuck in his own head is too sickening. Eddie slips out from the living room when he thinks no one is paying attention and wanders up the stairs. He goes to Richie’s room, shutting the door behind him and crawling into bed. It doesn’t take long for him to get comfy; he feels safe here, smothered in warm blankets smelling like sandalwood and amber. The thoughts raging in his head finally slow and his heart along with them. It starts back up again when he hears voices down the hall, getting closer. He shuts his eyes and yanks the blankets up to cover his face. The door opens and he feels his throat squeeze shut.

“You’re a fucking id—” Ren stops, “Eddie’s in here,” she says softly, as if not to wake him. Maybe they’ll leave. Maybe he can avoid this. He almost jumps when he hears snapping in his ear and Richie saying his name, but just slumps over and whines. _ Go away, _ it means. _ Go away, go away, go away. _ He wants to say it, but he’s too out of it. “We can talk somewhere else.”

“Nah, he’s a heavy sleeper.” Richie plops down on the mattress, near Eddie’s feet. _ Fucking asshole, _ Eddie thinks. _ Go away. Go away. Go away. _His anxiety only grows.

“Okay, fine, you’re a fuckin’ idiot, Richie.”

“I’m sure that’s warranted and all, but what’d I do this time?” His hand brushes against Eddie’s calf, slowly trailing up and then back down. His fingers rub patterns through the blanket. It’s really hard for Eddie to stay still. The nerves in his skin fizz and pop like soda.

“You bring him here,” Ren says, “and you introduce him to the family and you let everyone go on believing you finally met someone good for you.” Her voice is harsh and angry, she’s _ pissed. _ She sort of sounds like Richie when he’s mad, rambling and bitter. “Mom told me yesterday — fucking _ yesterday _ — not only is that not the case, but Eddie’s not even gay.”

“So?” The patterns don’t stop. Circles, swirls, and squiggles. It makes him want to sleep for real.

_ “So?” _ Ren gets louder, Eddie thinks she might be pacing. “So, what the fuck are you doing, Rich? This is reckless and stupid, even for you.” She’s worried, Eddie realizes. He can’t tell if he wants to know why or not.

“‘S not like that,” Richie mumbles, the patterns still don’t stop. He isn’t very defensive.

“What is it like then, huh? You’re _super _ sure it won’t end badly? That you can control how impulsive you are and just _ deal with it? _ I fucking know you, Rich. You’re not good at shit like that.” Something in her voice makes Eddie think Richie broke his own heart in the hopes of giving it to someone else before. It makes his skin crawl. The patterns still don’t stop.

“It isn’t like that,” he spits back. The fire in him Eddie’s come to know finally rears its head. “You don’t know him, Ren. Maybe Ma told you we aren’t together, fine. Did she tell you why he’s here?” Even in his anger, Richie’s grip doesn’t tighten. He’s still gentle and delicate. Eddie can feel his throat constricting again. Why couldn’t he have gone away? Why couldn’t he have made sure he was actually sleeping? It’s too late to say something now.

“She didn’t tell me.”

“Do you think everyone has a family like ours now?”

“No.” Her anger shrinks with her voice.

“Do you think he does?” His grows.

“I—” Ren tries, but Richie interrupts her before she can say anything else.

“Remember when Leda asked about his family last night? Remember how he stopped breathing and I had to take him up here? His dad is dead and his mom is an abusive piece of shit,” he pauses, but Ren doesn’t answer. She knows he isn’t really asking, he’s just telling her. Eddie wants nothing more than for everything to stop; he’s never used that word to describe his mother before, however appropriate it is. “I don’t even know everything that god-forsaken fucking woman’s done to him. I don’t _ want _ to know because if I fucking found out I think I’d kill her. He can’t even talk about it!” He gets louder. Now, the patterns stop. Eddie feels the mattress shift when Richie stands.

“Whenever he gets a text from her or, god fuckin’ forbid, she _ calls, _ he gets this look on his face I can’t even describe. I just know it makes me feel sick. It makes me feel sick and it makes me feel angry and I can’t even fucking help him.” Eddie can tell Richie’s pacing now, Ren must have slowed to a stop to avoid the fury in his steps. Richie likes to break things when he’s angry, he tries not to but, sometimes, it happens. He’s sure his family knows more than anyone. “I didn’t want him going back to her house. I didn’t want him to spend the whole holiday alone on campus because he didn’t want to go back either.” The rage starts to die down, Eddie can tell. It’s something different now.

“I’m sorry,” Ren says, shocked and at a loss for anything else. The mattress shifts again and Richie’s hand finds Eddie’s calf again. The patterns are different shapes now. He refuses to acknowledge what they are. “You know, you’re kind of getting better at talking about how you feel.” A compliment. Eddie wonders if she gives those often. The new patterns are hearts.

“I was angry.”

“Still, it was better.”

“Yeah, 'cause it’s you.”

“What about with him?” she asks. He’s sure she’s gesturing to him.

“Not so much.” Richie sighs, flopping back against the bed and letting his hand travel up to Eddie’s hip. He doesn’t make patterns, he lets it sit there. It’s silent for a long time, between the soft shuffling of feet and hesitated words. Breathing is getting really hard.

“Be careful with your heart, Richie.” With that, the door shuts again. He doesn’t know how long Richie stays behind and lays near him, but it feels like hours. He tries to really sleep, he sort of does, but in small flickers of unconsciousness he hears everything again. _ I don’t want to know. _ Sleep starts to cradle him in its arms. _ I think I’d kill her. _ He never knew how Richie felt about his mother before, he never thought to ask his opinions on the blog pieces. _ I just know it makes me feel sick. _ He falls asleep with Richie’s hand still on his hip.

It’s dark out when Eddie wakes up and Richie is still there. Except, now, he’s next to him, scrolling through his phone and listening to music. Eddie thinks his heart speeds up, he tries not to let it while his eyes linger on Richie’s freckled cheeks barely illuminated by the blue light of the screen.

“You slept through Christmas,” Richie says softly. There’s no impending joke or snarky comment. It’s just to let him know.

“Mm,” Eddie hums, his heart beats even faster, “I was tired.” He tries to relax.

“You slept through dinner too.” He stands, stretching his long limbs and stifling a groan. Has he been with him the entire time?

“I’ll live.”

“If you think my mom isn’t going to try to feed you the instant you walk downstairs, you’re delusional.”

“I’m never leaving this bed,” Eddie mumbles, rolling over to bury his face into the pillow. Everything feels so _ heavy; _ the way they seemed to have made up but not entirely, the words Ren said, the things those words imply. He could spend his life wrapped up in these blankets and have no qualms about it. He feels Richie sit back down on the edge of the bed and squeeze his shoulder.

“You okay?”

“Dunno.” His voice is muffled. He does know, though. He’s not okay. He’s never okay. How can he keep living like this? Stan is right, he knows. Beverly is right, he knows. He needs to learn to live with himself. He doesn’t know how to do it. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever not hate himself.

“I bet I can cheer you up,” Richie says, getting up and rifling through something. Eddie makes himself sit up, his head pounds a bit, and he tries to focus on something that isn’t spinning like the room. Richie’s by his side soon, holding out an envelope with Eddie’s name scribbled in his horrendous handwriting. He feels a small smile start to form.

“You sap,” Eddie teases, leaning over to grab his jacket from the floor and grabbing the pendant still inside, “I got you something too.”

“Awe, Eds, you shouldn’t have. A blowjob would’ve been fine.” A shit-eating grin blooms across Richie’s face and Eddie shoves him, handing him the small bag. There’s a buzzing in the air, anticipation to see if the joke was too far.

“Beep beep, asshole.” He slips his fingers under the seal and rips the envelope open, rather messily. He can’t take the paper out because Richie throws his arms around him.

“You fucker, these are perfect,” Richie says. He slips away and pulls his t-shirt off, Eddie swears his heart stops, shutting his eyes until he has both the new button-up and the pendant on. Then, he’s at a loss for what to do. He pulls the paper out of the mauled envelope and unfolds it. At first, he can’t react. _ Eddie Spaghetti. _ Of course, he chose that.

“You…” He can feel his fingers twitch. “You got me a star?” he asks, staring at the piece of paper and trying hard to breathe steadily. Richie named a star after him.

“I mean, not really. They can’t technically sell it and I can’t technically name it, but we can pretend it’s yours. I bet we could even see it from our secret spot one day, if the light pollution doesn’t drown it out.” He tries to seem nonchalant about it, as if it isn’t the best gift Eddie’s ever been given. Things feel hazy and soft, Eddie thinks he might be leaning in closer until Richie flops back down onto the mattress and wraps himself up in the sheets. Eddie thinks he might mumble a thank you, but he doesn’t have to. Richie knows.

“We should go to bed. It’s late and you still seem tired. _ I’m _ tired, spent all fuckin’ day wrangling my cousins in for pictures.” There’s a hidden message in that sentence. _ I didn’t stay with you. _ He shuts the lights off and that’s it. They both lay in the shadows and stare up at the glow in the dark stars; something so tender about them now.

“I’d love that,” Eddie admits. He can feel Richie’s honey-brown eyes on him. “I can’t imagine having a family like yours.” His eyes flicker with something, barely discernible in the darkness, and then he smiles.

“They’re your family too now. I think they’ll poison me if you don’t come back next year.” Just like that, Eddie loses it. Everything weighs down on him and he splinters under the pressure. _ They’re your family too now. _ He doesn’t know how it starts, but he’s crying and pulling the blankets over his head to try and hide it. It doesn’t work, he feels Richie grab his hand. “Shit, did I say something? I’m sorry, Eds. I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t say anything.” Eddie pulls him close and melts into his arms.

“Are you okay?” Richie asks, shoulders sort of tense. He slowly, cautiously slips his arms around Eddie’s waist and keeps him close, the tension slowly fades. Neither of them really knows if the action is okay. With the closest they've been to normalcy all month, neither of them really care.

★★★

The next few days after are different. Richie gets more flippant with Eddie for almost everything he does and, at some point, he even resorts to sleeping on the couch once most of his cousins have gone back home. Eddie doesn’t know what he did, every attempt at a private conversation gets shut down; they only talk in front of other people. He knows Richie’s parents have noticed too, as if he could pretend he wasn’t camping out in the living room when the piles of blankets and pillows are shoved behind the cushions. At least they haven’t asked, maybe they’ve talked to him but not Eddie. He’s grateful.

He’s sprawled out in a La-Z-Boy, legs draped over one arm and head leaning back against the other, while he reads a random book from Richie’s bedroom floor. The pages are full of scribbles in the margins and chunks of highlighted text, Eddie figures it’s one of his favorites. No matter how hard he tries to read the actual story, his eyes keep wandering to the handwriting in green ink.

“Hey,” Richie says. He grabs Eddie’s foot and tries to get out of the way fast enough when he responds by kicking him in the stomach — he doesn’t manage it. “Wanna go to a party? Ya know, bring in the new year with some fun?”

“It’s like a half-hour to midnight. And have you suddenly forgotten what happened at the last party we went to together?” Eddie doesn’t look up from the book, gripping it tight when Richie tries to yank it from his hands. He hasn’t forgotten. Who could forget an acid trip that lands them in a hospital? Well, lands _ Richie _ in a hospital. Eddie refused to go, leaving Stan to deal with the effects. He still apologizes for that night.

“It’ll be fun,” he says in a sing-songy tone, “no drugs this time.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you until you tell me what’s been going on lately.” Eddie glances up to see the smile disappear from Richie’s face. His eyebrows furrow and he shrugs.

“Okay, no party. We can stay here and drink.”

“You should still go.” He looks back down at the book, as if he’s actually absorbing anything from it. Only twelve pages in and he can’t remember shit about what’s happening.

“Why would I go without you?” Richie plops down onto the couch and props his feet up on the coffee table, something he’s done about a thousand times since getting home and something he’s gotten scolded at for doing about a thousand times since getting home. Eddie shuts the book and lets it slap against the floor when he puts it there.

“You don’t really seem to want me around, so…why wouldn’t you? This is the first time you’ve actually talked to me in days without insulting me or being courteous for the sake of your family.” As if on cue, Maggie calls them both for dinner; he doesn’t question it, some tradition he doesn’t understand but won’t ask about. Richie pulls Eddie into the hall before he can make his way toward the dining room. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a rather shittily rolled joint, offering it to him.

“Her cooking tastes better this way,” he smiles, lighting it between his teeth when Eddie shakes his head. He follows close behind him, taking the seat next to him much to his dismay. Maggie and Went don’t seem to mind him smoking in the house, the idea alone amazes Eddie. But, that’s not what he’s focusing on. He’s focusing on _ Richie, _ who has smoke dancing from his lips after each drag and black polish on his nails. He’s sort of annoyed, being ignored for days and finally acknowledged for the sake of going to some shitty party; Richie doesn’t even want to talk to him about why. Eddie tries to enjoy dinner, answering questions whenever someone asks and enduring Richie’s jokes. They make it ‘till dessert before something happens. Another joke is made, this time Richie pinches Eddie’s cheek and gets his hand swatted away.

“How long have you been dating, Eddie?” a cousin, he thinks is Dylan, asks him. Maggie and Went grow quiet, but Richie doesn’t miss a beat.

“He _ wishes _ he was dating me!” He laughs, not noticing how Eddie jumps to his feet and leaves until he hears the sliding door slam shut. His parents and Ren stare at him expectantly, until he gets up to find him. Through the glass, he sees Eddie sitting on the edge of the hot tub, dipping his feet in the bubbling water with steam rising off the top. He hardly looks up when he sits next to him.

“What’s wrong, Eds?”

“Why the fuck do you care?”

“Jesus, what the fuck? I’m just trying to help.” He frowns, taking another long drag and offering it to Eddie once again. He has the urge to grab it and put it out, but he doesn’t.

“Why did you bring me here if you hate me? It’s like you can’t even stand to look at me,” Eddie huffs. Fury flickers in his stormy eyes like a hurricane about to hit the shore. The annoyance in Richie’s fades fast.

“I don’t hate you,” he says softly. He tries to seem cold, his expression gives him away. Eddie can feel his heart start to melt, but he doesn’t let it show. “I didn’t want you to spend the holiday alone.”

“Oh, great, so you pity me.” Eddie feels bad the second he says it, he knows it's not true. Richie kicks a splash of water, watching it crash against the concrete and standing up.

“God, you’re so _ fucking _ infuriating, Eddie.”

“Why don’t you make me leave then?” he mutters. Richie groans, loud and frustrated, before kicking the closest lawn chair across the patio. It breaks once it hits the ground again.

“BECAUSE I WANT YOU HERE! I’M ANGRY AND I’M NOT OVER IT AND I STILL FUCKING WANT YOU HERE!” The volume makes Eddie flinch. He hasn’t really seen Richie this angry, not angry enough to scream at him. He can’t say anything before Ren slides the door open and looks at Richie; she must’ve heard the yelling, glancing between them and realizing she’s interrupting an argument.

“Are you alright, Rich?” She’s quiet, almost unheard, but Eddie knows.

“Yeah,” he waves her away, “we’ll be in soon.” With one more look toward Eddie, she shuts the door and disappears. Richie sighs, sitting back down next to him and dipping his feet in the water. He puts his head in his hands and Eddie swears, for a moment, he’s crying.

“Do you remember what you said after the show? That sometimes it scares you how much you care? I forget what happened and I feel like things are normal, then I’ll remember again and get angry,” his voice is tight and thin, something in it wavers, “I can be pissed off at you and still care, Eds. It’s gonna take a while for me to be completely over what you said, so be patient with me.” Richie lifts his head up and the colorful lights illuminate the glassiness of his eyes. Eddie nods at him.

“But, don’t think I don’t care.” They both watch the steam rising in the air, eyes avoiding one another as Eddie feels Richie grab his hand. He lets him. Their fingers lace together and it almost lets them ignore the freezing cold. “I’ll always care and I could never hate you,” he says.

“Never say never.” Eddie’s smile falters, he tries to seem like he’s joking but he pulls his hand away and his mother’s voice is back in his head. _ Sickly boy. Filthy boy. Delicate boy. _ Maybe one day, Eddie will take things too far and he’ll lose him forever. Richie just shakes his head.

“Never,” he says firmly, “I could never hate you.” He lays his head on Eddie’s shoulder and things are quiet again. There’s a humming in the frigid, icy air. It reminds them both of the night things got fucked up in the first place. It’s the same feeling, that chemistry, interrupted when someone else opens the sliding door.

“The ball’s about to drop, boys,” Maggie says. They get up without a word, following her down the hall while she apologizes for Dylan’s question, she didn’t think the kids would notice anything. She talks about champagne too, how it’s up for the taking if they want it.

There are two minutes until midnight. Only a handful of people are in the living room to celebrate, the only people in the house — Richie’s parents, Ren, Richie, Eddie, a few cousins, one aunt, and one uncle. The people who can, drink. The people who can’t sneak glasses anyway. Music floods the room, pulsing in the walls, and the TV is a blur of colors when the ball finally starts to drop. There's happiness in the air Eddie’s not sure he’s ever known before.

**Ten.  
**He downs another glass of champagne.  
**Nine.   
**His face hurts from smiling.  
**Eight.  
**He looks over at Richie and his heart stumbles.  
**Seven.  
**Wild curls and rosy cheeks and drunk on laughter.  
**Six.  
**Their hands find one another again.  
**Five.   
**They avoid each other’s gaze.  
**Four.  
**Still smiling, though.  
**Three.  
**He realizes they’ll be okay.  
**Two.  
**A pulsing, electric jitteriness in his bones.  
**One.  
**Eddie, for the first time without guilt, thinks of kissing Richie.


	5. he didn't burn the place down!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things like this always remind Eddie things aren’t back to normal yet. He tries, just barely, to test it out and it always ends the same. He doesn’t know if it’d be better or worse to come out to Richie after they’re past what happened. He doesn’t even know if he can do it at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [this part's just for me to know i edited this chapter]

**JANUARY**

Everything about the room is supposed to feel inviting, likely calculated design and color palettes that should induce some type of comfort, but Eddie doesn’t even know why he’s here. Driving back to campus with Richie had put the thought in his head during the wordless moments and, for some reason, he acted on it. He had two weeks of waiting to back out before his first session. But, now, he’s not sure if it’s a good idea. It’s too late to change his mind; white noise machines are on, papers are filled out, and appointments are booked. The door finally swings open. A woman with platinum hair and a few piercings pokes her head out and smiles at him.

“Eddie?” She seems delighted when he nods and gestures for him to come in, maybe trying in some way to make it all feel normal; he’d written on the form he’d never been to therapy before. She introduces herself as Cara and shakes his hand when he offers, a small remark about how polite he is. He sits down on the couch across from her seat, it’s dark purple and covered in pillows with various motivational quotes — she even kept up with the colors of the school, he supposes that’s good for an on-campus psychologist. He tries not to seem as nervous as he is once she sits down and opens a small notebook; he’s sure she can see right through him.

“So, what brings you in?” Cara asks, crossing one leg over the other and clicking the purple pen in her hand. _ Right, _ Eddie thinks, _ I’m here for a reason. _But, the reasons slip his mind. His eyes wander instead — to a framed diploma with the name Cara Sohn from a school he’s sure is in California, to a picture on a table he assumes must be of her and her sister, to an unfinished puzzle in the corner of the floor. When he looks back at her, the smile hasn’t lessened; only more encouraging now, asking if he needs her to repeat the question.

“I need help, I guess,” he says, watching intrigue knit itself into her face. _ Of course, _ he needs help. Everyone who comes here needs help. “I don’t really know what I’m supposed to say. I just wanna be better.”

“Better?” She tilts her head slightly.

“With everything. I have this...it’s not a problem, like, I know it isn’t. But, I _ feel _ like it is for me.” His voice trails off when he tries to talk again. He’s never said this out loud before. “I think I like boys.” Cara nods at him, an invitation to keep going. The concern in her previous expression is completely absent. “I mean, I don’t think. I know I do, I just don’t want to. I think it was because of my mother and how she raised me. Well, again, I don’t think. Does I make any sense?” She nods once more.

“You’re struggling to accept your sexuality.”

“Yes,” Eddie says, breathless. It’s so simple of a question and so simple of an answer when all the context is taken away. At least he doesn’t have to say it, he doesn’t know if he can. A numbness takes over, not annoyed and not sad; he’s relieved, for a moment. Then, of course, the nagging anger comes back. It shouldn’t be this difficult.

“You said it’s because of how you were raised,” Cara reiterates. Eddie just laughs, not because it’s funny; he’s nervous. He’s really, really nervous. Talking about his mother always makes him nervous, as if her shadow swirls around his throat and reminds him he should have trouble breathing. _ Sickly boy. Filthy boy. Delicate boy. _She doesn’t press and he loves her for it, savoring every second she’s never pushing him for an answer. It makes it easier to find one.

“Yeah,” he says, “I don’t even know where to start with that. My dad got diagnosed with cancer when I was four and died when I was five. I think it really fuc—” he stops. Can he curse in here? He doesn’t really know the protocol. She smiles, he can say what he likes. “I think it really fucked up my mother. She took me to doctors all the time and insisted I was sick, had me diagnosed with all sorts of stuff I didn’t really have. I thought I had asthma for a good eleven years of my life. Turns out it was all bullshit.” There isn’t another word he could even think of to describe it. _ Bullshit. _ He remembers spitting it out at her when they fought over it. _ Bullshit. _ He’d thrown the inhaler at her. _ Bullshit. _ He doesn’t want to remember more.

“And the whole time, I just thought I could keep everything a secret. I knew how I was, ya know,” Eddie shrugs, still not daring himself to say it, “but I could never talk to her about anything. I couldn’t talk to anyone else either; she’d keep me locked up in the house for weeks and got angry when I’d hang out with other boys — anyone really, but mostly boys. She knew about me, I think. That’s what she said, at least, I was always _ sick.” _ He can feel his hands fidgeting with his hoodie but can’t control them. Cara looks heartbroken. Maybe most people who come in here aren’t this screwed up.

“I’m so sorry you had to go through that.” She means it, he can tell, and he’s not sure anybody’s ever said it before. Realistically, if he ever told the Losers about his mother — the full truth of it all — they’d say something like it, but he doesn’t consider it an option most of the time. He doesn’t want them to know she abused him, even though they’d understand. He doesn’t want them to look at him differently, even though they wouldn’t. He doesn’t want her to change how his life is anymore.

“I’m here for a different reason,” he says suddenly. Her head tilts a bit again, long hair falling over her shoulder, and prompts him to explain. “I know she’s fucked up and I know what she did was fucked up and I probably have to talk to someone about it eventually.”

“But, not now?” She looks confused.

“It’s not what’s bothering me lately. I just wanna stop feeling guilty for being like this and I can’t do it on my own. I’ve tried. I’ve _ really _ tried, but I always make things worse.”

“Well, seeking help never hurts. But, what makes you say that?” Cara asks, still writing little things in the notebook. Eddie shifts in his seat, his insides feel crocheted into a chain. “Did something happen?”

“I met this guy,” he says softly. Images of Richie flood his mind; thick glasses and obnoxious laughter and burning eyes. He feels like smiling. He might be already, he can’t really tell. Richie makes his brain go haywire even when he isn’t near. “I’ve been friends with him for a while, his name’s Richie. He's gay.” Why is it so easy to say when it’s somebody else? Annoyance flickers in his bones, the wicks of candles just lit. The more he talks about him, the less he feels it. Cara lets him talk about Richie for a long time, going on and on about small things; how the shirts he wears are obnoxious but he doesn’t really hate them as much as he says he does, how he’s the least organized person he’s ever met and the contents of his closest put the fear of a thousand gods into his heart, how he's both a mystery and a map whose paths he's memorized. Eddie isn’t sure if she lets him rattle on for so long because it’s making him more relaxed or because it’s nice for her to have some background information, but he thinks it might be both.

“I was helping him practice for this scene in a play two months ago and it was, like, kind of romantic. Not really, because story-wise it was supposed to be a depressing moment, but there was a kiss and he said we didn’t have to do it. He doesn’t know about me and I’d done kinda well to avoid the topic till then. But, we were running the lines,” Eddie pauses, watching Cara’s face for any hint of judgment. There aren’t. “There was chemistry. I could _ feel _ it. I’d never felt that way before — I can’t even describe it — and he ended up kissing me.”

He pauses again. 

“And I let him.”

Once more.

“And I liked it.”

“It’s okay to have liked it.” Somehow, he knows she knows the story isn’t over. His hands run through his hair and tears threaten to fall. He wishes it ended there. He still hates himself for what he did. He thinks everyone else does sometimes too. Bill will barely look his way, only withstanding his presence because Richie and Beverly have forgiven him.

“I kissed him back at first,” he admits, “but my head got so loud and all I could think about was the words my mother would call me. I said a lot of things I shouldn’t have.”” His words are gone and he avoids her eyes, shrinking beneath such a gentle mien. The tears start to fall and he’s offered a box of tissues before he can ask. “I don’t wanna repeat any of it, but I’m sure you can imagine.” Eddie makes himself look at her, but there’s still no judgment on her face. She looks concerned.

“Did anything else happen?”

“He told me to get out and I did. I sort of lost it. I get panic attacks a lot and I think that was the worst one I’ve ever experienced. He stopped talking to me and, god, I didn’t blame him.” The crying doesn’t stop. He tries, and he berates himself when he fails, but it doesn’t stop.

“You’re using past-tense,” Cara says, almost asking.

“We’re talking again. Things are...I’m not sure. I apologized to him and told him I couldn’t explain everything, he asked if it was because of my mother and said we could try to be friends again when he realized it was. He knows she was bad but no one really knows everything.” Eddie sighs, relaxing back into the couch and shaking his head slightly. He should’ve told him then. “We’re trying. He’s still hot and cold. Sometimes it’s like things are normal and other times it feels like he can’t bear to look at me. I don’t know why he even entertains the idea of talking to me. If he wasn’t so smug, I’d think he has low self-esteem.” Guilt swirls in his blood, making it thick and heavy until he’s not sure his heart can still pump it through his veins. He shouldn’t be talking about Richie behind his back.

“Then, why do you think he forgave you?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think you might,” Cara says. There’s a look on her face Eddie knows. He’d have to be an idiot to pretend Richie doesn’t like him. He _ knows_ he does. He doesn’t know much about friends and what they do but he knows Richie is different — Stan doesn’t call Eddie cute or kiss his cheeks, Mike doesn’t joke about hooking up with him or let him sit on his lap, and Ben doesn’t call him _ my love _ or _ babe. _ Even if he hadn’t overheard his conversation with Ren, he’d know Richie has feelings for him. He tries not to think about it. He tries not to think about what if’s. He tries not to think about what life could be like if he could just be himself. Grief takes him in its arms. Is he allowed to grieve for the person he could’ve been? Lately, if not for years, it feels like that’s all he’s been doing.

“He said this thing. We fought on New Year's Eve and I can’t stop thinking about it. He said he was angry and he wasn’t over it, but he still wanted me around because he can be angry with me and still care. I know that's not a shocking concept, in and of itself. I just know we held hands after.” It hasn’t left Eddie’s head since he said it. He thinks about New Year's Eve a lot; he wanted to _ kiss _ him. Tipsy from champagne, dizzy from the sound of his laughter, and jittery from the argument they’d just had — Eddie wanted to kiss Richie again. There’s no way he could admit it now. Not out loud.

“You spent the day together?” The pen scratches against the notebook’s paper.

“We spent the whole break together. I was gonna stay on campus to avoid going home and he invited me to stay with his family.” It’s quiet, save for the white noise machine and quickly scribbled words. Cara nods, taking everything in, and he wonders if he’s dumped too much on her for the first session they’re having. _ And I’m barely scraping the bottom of the barrel, _ he thinks.

“He must really care about you,” she finally says, “it’s rare for someone to get past an incident like that, not many would care to put in the effort.” The words make Eddie’s shoulders drop. He knows Richie cares, but hearing it from someone else makes him feel relieved. Sometimes he’s worried Richie only stays around because he pities him or wants to play a long-running joke. It isn’t fair to acknowledge the thought, he knows he’s wrong. _ Richie cares. _

“He isn’t really past it, though. He knows I’m sorry and I’m not gonna do it again but he doesn’t know why I said it in the first place. I think that’s why he’s still angry with me. _I’m_ still angry with me, but at least I know the truth.” His voice is low and the tears have stopped. He knows why he’s here. He’s here for _ Richie. _ He wants things to be normal again. He wants things to be better than normal. Cara seems to understand.

“You’re thinking about coming out to him,” she says. Anxiety pulls at Eddie’s skin. If emotions keep replacing his cells, he won’t have any piece of him left.

“I don’t know. I want to, but I can’t even say the words in my head, let alone out loud or to someone else,” he sighs. Stan only knows because he asked and, even then, Eddie broke when he answered. Beverly only knows because she figured it out, he broke after that too.

“Start there, then. Not to sound unprofessional here but, it sounds like you went through some serious shit, Eddie.” He stifles a laugh, barely, and she notices, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “You have to give yourself more credit for how you’re coping with things. Yeah, you mess up sometimes — maybe you mess up bad — but, you can’t expect yourself to be totally well-adjusted. No one really is and they’re not holding you to such a high standard.” He thinks, for a second, he doesn’t believe there are people who aren’t totally well-adjusted. He swears he’s met a few of them. He thought Stan was, at first, and he thinks Cara must be now; he doesn’t know her very well at all, but someone only a few years older than him with a job like this has to have their shit together at least a little.

“I _ want _to be well-adjusted,” he says, “as close to it as I can get, at least, if that’s not impossible by now.”

“It's only impossible if you want it to be. You can’t change what happened in the past, I know you know that already, however angry it might make you.” She shuts her notebook, leaning back slightly in her chair and folding her hands over her knee. He catches a glimpse of a tattoo beneath her sleeve and wonders what it’s of. He wonders, more so, how she knows about the fury hiding behind his brain at all hours of the day. Is it magic or years of psychology experience at work or simply a lucky guess? Whatever it is, and he knows it’s the second one, it sort of rattles him.

“It's a lot of work to change, but you _can_ do it. I think you need some more tools to work with, some way to unlearn the things your childhood instilled in you. They might never go away entirely, that’s just how trauma works, but you can always challenge them.” He decides not to focus on the word. _Trauma. _It feels too big for him. He knows there are people who've had it worse. If he'd think about it for a little longer, he'd realize he _is _one of the people many would view as 'having it worse.'

“How?”

“Practice.” Cara grins at him. “Start small. Just think to yourself once a day: I’m gay and there’s nothing wrong with that. Eventually, maybe you can work up to writing it, then saying it to yourself, then telling somebody else.” The thought nearly makes him go stone-cold. It’s all he can focus on during the rest of the session; they talk about the Losers, they talk about Eddie’s childhood, and they talk about his anxiety. She listens. He knows it's a stupid thing to appreciate because, _ of course, _ therapists are supposed to listen. But, he still appreciates it.

When he walks out of the room, down the cobblestone paths back to his dorm, he tries. His heart races and his skin crawls and it shouldn’t be this _ hard. _ He keeps walking, snow crushed beneath his shoes, and keeps trying. No matter how many times he restarts, he can only get so far into the eight words.

_ I’m— _

★★★

The only reason he’s here is because of Richie; they’d planned to take this class together back in early November (before things got bad) and scheduled their other courses around it. They don’t necessarily _ need _ to take it, because it’s not required for either of their majors or even for a gen-ed. They just wanted an excuse to spend time together. But, now that he’s here, standing in a circle around the small room with the other twenty-something students in the class, Eddie regrets it. He can’t stand ice-breakers and he’s never been comfortable talking about sex — he probably should have figured doing ice-breakers was, in fact, a possibility on the first day and talking about sex was absolutely guaranteed in a course called 'Sex, Society, & Health.' And yet there he stands, squished between Richie and a girl with blue hair, while the professor lays out the guidelines. It’s basic stuff, the things he’s always asked to talk about: his name, his pronouns, his major, his year, and why he’s taking the class. He could do without the last one, nothing comes to mind but Richie and he can’t say that (he _ could, _but he won’t).

Eventually, they get to him. He stumbles on his words and feels a hand on his shoulder, giving a quick and reassuring squeeze; he doesn’t need to look to know it’s Richie. His words come easier after, he races through the questions — Eddie, he/him, psychology, junior, and he never got a comprehensive sex-ed course in high school (it's true too, Derry isn’t exactly the pinnacle of progressive schooling). Richie has no problem, his presence takes up the entire room and it’s like all eyes are on him. He always blooms when he captures the attention of a crowd; he was born to perform. Everyone can tell and Eddie always loves to watch him capture an audience.

“I’m Richie, my friends call me Trashmouth and I’m sure you will too eventually,” he says. A handful of people laugh and Eddie can see the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I’m a Comedic Arts major, minoring in Literature, and I’m a junior just like Eddie Spaghetti here.” Richie pinches Eddie’s cheek and he tries, so hard, to pretend he hates it — he swats his hand away and shoots him a look, but his heart still flutters. A few people chuckle at that too. “And I’m taking this class ‘cause I like sex.” If people weren’t entertained before, they definitely are now. The looks at him linger even when the next person talks, some of them stay after everyone’s sitting back at the tables.

The rest of the time, the professor talks about what he calls the most important assignment in the entire course. The idea alone sparks fear in Eddie’s chest; writing a page about an experience that helps you define your sexuality. He knows, almost instantly, what he’s going to write, but that isn’t the problem. The problem is the presenting — submitting it without a name so somebody else, randomly assigned, can read it out loud. Not only does he have to read somebody else’s, someone has to read _ his. _ Everyone seems to share the same sentiments about it too, at least. They end pretty early, only taking about an hour and a half of the three scheduled. Eddie doesn’t mind, the only thing he cares about is relaxing and, hopefully, napping.

“Do you think any of the rest of the Losers are free?” Richie asks, slipping his jacket on and wrapping a scarf around his neck. It’s a new one, Eddie knows, that’s bright yellow and has a design to look like caution tape at a crime scene. _ Do not cross. _ The irony weighs heavily on him.

“I don’t know, maybe Bill and Ben are—”

“Hey, it’s Richie, right?” A voice interrupts him and a guy with sandy hair along with it, standing on the other side of the thin table and smiling. “I’m Matthew.” Richie offers a lackadaisical wave, but gives Eddie a quick glance as if to say_ who the fuck is this? _Matthew, on the other hand, doesn’t acknowledge Eddie’s presence at all.

“Uh, yeah. The Trashmouth.”

“I don’t know if I believe that.” He smirks, blue eyes quickly flickering to Richie’s lips. Jealousy rages in Eddie’s bones, sets in his jaw, and prickles in his skin. He doesn’t know _ why _ he’s jealous. Girls flirt with Richie a lot, ultimately turned away, and he’s never been jealous before. Deep down, he knows the reason.

“You know, you don’t even know if I’m into guys.” Richie leans closer, all his weight on the hand still flat against the tabletop. _ He’s flirting too, _ Eddie realizes. The jealousy grows and he nurtures it, not doing anything to starve it of the attention it craves; he lets it feed on him until it takes up his entire chest. He wants to do something. What _ can _ he do?

“Says the man wearing a t-shirt with the words ‘tired and gay’ across the front.” There’s satisfaction in Matthew’s voice, like he’s winning a game of some kind, and the satisfaction writes itself across his face when Richie remembers he is, in fact, wearing said shirt. Eddie shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, not wanting either of them to notice how they’re curled into fists. “Are you doing anything right now? We could go grab a coffee.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’m busy today.” Richie slinks back, slipping his arm around Eddie’s waist and leaning his cheek against the top of his head. He feels a quick squeeze on his side that almost makes him jump. The satisfaction vanishes and the jealousy dwindles, switching who it inhabits. Now, Eddie’s the one smiling. Matthew leaves and the arm around Eddie’s waist drops back down to Richie’s side. He almost wishes it hadn’t. “God, what a fucking asshole,” Richie mumbles. They start walking toward the doors.

“You seemed like you liked him,” Eddie says, hoping the green still leftover doesn’t fill in the blank spaces of his words. They walk down the frozen paths, making their way toward Eddie’s dorm, and can only be grateful it isn’t as windy as this morning (even if it's still really fucking windy).

“I mean, he’s cute — I’ll give him that,” Richie says, pulling the hood on his jacket up as the wind billows between buildings, “but he was really arrogant and he just fucking _ ignored _ you the whole time. Like, if you’re gonna flirt with someone at least make sure they aren’t preoccupied with another person. You could’ve been my boyfriend for all he knew, you could’ve been a jealous boyfriend who punched him in the throat for talking to me!” He laughs at the idea, but something about the word echoes in the silence after. _ Boyfriend. _ Eddie doesn’t know how to feel. _ Richie’s boyfriend. _

“It’s also pretty shitty he thought you’d like him just because you’re gay.”

“That too!” Richie yells, as if not realizing it before. He grabs his ID from his wallet to be ready once they reach the front desk. He doesn’t say it, but Eddie’s glad he doesn’t like Matthew. He just listens to Richie rant during the entire time in the elevator, even when they walk through the door and drop their stuff on the floor; he tries not to be as bothered by it as he is. Pushing the boundaries his mother made is a way to challenge the thoughts she put in his head; he reminds himself to tell Cara about it. He manages to ignore the mess, plopping down into one of the red beanbags and turning on the TV.

They watch crime shows, an odd habit they hadn't meant to create but has somehow become their routine. Forensic Files, popcorn, and pink lemonade are their Monday nights; where Eddie seems to know exactly what happened despite not watching the episodes beforehand, Richie’s both fascinated and annoyed at the fact he always ends up being right. He keeps the subtitles on for when he mutes it, reading as he goes in either creepy or goofy voices, and Eddie’s gotten away with turning them off mid-spiel so he has to improvise — though it normally ends up with skewed stories and them having to rewind to hear the real one. Neither of them mind, a lot of the time Richie’s stories are less gruesome and somehow funny. He’s the only one in the world who can make Eddie laugh while talking about a murder investigation, he wonders if it's weird.

The talking stops fast, though, when Eddie gets sleepy after a few episodes and lays his head on Richie’s shoulder in the hopes of dozing off. The dim room is taken up by flashing colors and tense silence. The low, brooding voice Richie bases off Peter Thomas’ narrating returns into his normal one — only soft and anxious. He shifts in his seat and puts his phone back in his pocket.

“I, uh, I gotta run. I wanna go grab audition materials before it gets too late.”

“Oh,” Eddie mumbles, “what show?” He tries not to seem as disappointed as he is, watching Richie gather up his stuff and scramble around the room. Did he go too far? Did he cross a line? They always used to cuddle before November. Then again, they used to do a lot of things before November.

“A Streetcar Named Desire. I’m gonna audition with Bev.”

“Okay, well, text me when you’re back safe.”

“Got it,” Richie says, slamming the door shut behind him and leaving. Things like this always remind Eddie things aren’t back to normal yet. He tries, just barely, to test it out and it always ends the same. He doesn’t know if it’d be better or worse to come out to Richie after they’re past what happened. He doesn’t even know if he can do it at all. Climbing into bed and curling up in the sheets, he tries to think what Cara said again and only manages to get the first word.

★★★

** _— messages: Trashmouth (6) —_ **

** _Trashmouth [1:10 AM]:  
_ ** _ Eddie  
_ ** _Trashmouth [1:10 AM]:  
_ ** _ Eddie my love  
_ ** _Trashmouth [1:10 AM]:  
_ ** _ Bambi eyes  
_ ** _Trashmouth [1:10 AM]:  
_ ** _ Eds  
_ ** _Trashmouth [1:10 AM]:  
_ ** _ Babe  
_ ** _Trashmouth [1:10 AM]:  
_ ** _ Eddie Spaghetti _

** _Eds [1:11 AM]:  
_ ** _ dude, it’s 1am.  
_ ** _Eds [1:11 AM]:  
_ ** _ we’ve talked about this. _

** _Trashmouth [1:12 AM]:  
_ ** _ You were up anyway  
_ ** _Trashmouth [1:12 AM]:  
_ ** _ Let’s hang out  
_ ** _Trashmouth [1:12 AM]:  
_ ** _ Come to our spot _

** _Eds [1:13 AM]:  
_ ** _ have you lost your mind?  
_ ** _Eds [1:13 AM]:  
_ ** _ it’s like 10 below freezing  
_ ** _Eds [1:13 AM]:  
_ ** _ why can’t we hang out in my room? _

** _Trashmouth [1:14 AM]:  
_ ** _ [TotallyLegalDrugs.png] _

** _Eds [1:15 AM]:  
_ ** _ omw. _

The cold wind still stabs into Eddie’s skin, somehow worming its way beneath the layers of scarves and jackets he has. The entire walk there, watching out for black ice and stepping carefully, is torture; he almost regrets it. He _ does _ regret it until he slips between the barren trees and sees Richie sitting on the frozen ground. A bright orange beanie attempts to hide his untamed curls, ones still peeking out from the edges and fly in random directions. He doesn’t turn to look at him, even though he hears him.

“Remind me why we don’t just smoke in your car,” Eddie says, yanking his coat down past his butt before plopping down onto the grass. He’s still cold. Richie doesn’t answer or look his way. Among the sound of buzzing lights from the streetlamps behind them and the distant hum of passing cars below, Eddie hears sniffling. _ Is he crying? _ Concern and worry warm his skin, he touches Richie’s shoulder and he seems to flinch at the touch; he finally lifts his head. When his eyes find Eddie’s, a muddled mess of tears and smeared eyeliner, his bottom lip quivers.

“Richie,” Eddie says softly. He wants nothing more than to take him in his arms and hug the sadness out of him.

“Someone said something in a class today.” His voice wobbles like the legs of a newborn fawn. “You know the stand-up writing one?” Eddie nods, waiting for more. Guilt and disappointment thrum in his blood, he knows Richie was really excited for the course. “I don’t remember how it got to that point but I made a gay joke about myself and this guy just…he called me _ disgusting.” _ The guilt and disappointment quickly turn into anger. Something in Richie’s face makes him think he really believes it. Eddie realizes he wants to hurt the person who made him feel this way. The realization almost scares him, but not enough to stop thinking about it and not enough to feel bad.

“I couldn’t even say anything, I just left and walked here. I skipped all the rest of my classes and I think the professor might’ve emailed me, but I’ve been too upset to read it.” Richie gets quiet, almost ashamed, and Eddie’s shoulders drop.

“You’ve been outside in the cold all day?” he asks, making Richie look away again. “You could’ve come to me and stayed in my room, I would’ve ditched. Stan could’ve signed you in if I wasn’t there.” The words cause more tears.

“I didn’t wanna bother you,” he mumbles. Eddie takes his hands out of his pockets, ignoring the way the air bites his skin, and uses his fingers to lift Richie’s chin.

“You could never bother me,” he says. In those words are dangerous implications and both of them know it, they always have. Something about hearing it, even indirectly like this, feels really strange. Electricity bounds and rebounds between them, unmentioned but not unnoticed. Then, Richie breaks. He collapses into Eddie’s arms and sobs, squeezing tight like he could get rid of all the space between them. He could, if not for the coats. They suddenly hate the winter.

“C’mere.” Eddie’s words are muffled against Richie’s neck, but he hears them and listens. He scoots into his lap, knees toward his chest and arms still wrapped around him. One of Eddie’s hands finds the back of his head, the other finds the small space between his shoulder blades. All Richie does is cry — shaking or shivering, neither can tell which.

“Maybe he’s right,” he says, thumb brushing against Eddie’s jawline. He doesn’t have the time to object, Richie keeps talking. “I forgot there are people like that. I built this little bubble around me where everyone’s chill and I _ forgot _ people like that exist.” His breath is warm against Eddie’s neck, so welcome in this cold. There are no more words, only tears and only whimpers. Eddie holds him. He holds him and he holds him and he holds him until the crying stops, until the aches in their hearts are subsided. He would stay like this for hours, near frostbitten and pre-hypothermic, if Richie needed him to. He’d do it every time.

“I’m sorry I bummed you out.”

“You didn’t—”

“We can smoke now, if you want.” Richie pulls away, but not completely. He fishes a blunt out of his pocket and a lighter soon after. The moment still lingers, the forced smile on his face can’t erase the redness in his eyes. But, Eddie doesn’t say anything about it. He doesn’t want to push it, he’s gotten good at noticing when Richie’s done talking about serious things. Richie holds the joint to Eddie’s lips, eyes hardly flickering from his face while he inhales and tries to ignore the blush wanting to creep up on him. Something about it makes his heart flutter. He can’t stop the words escaping him.

“You’re the bravest person I know, Rich.”

“Eds,” he warns. It's almost lazy. He takes a hit himself.

“I mean it. I could never do what you do — performing and breathing life into a room and being yourself. I think it’s the bravest thing someone can do.” Silence sits heavily between them. If it weren’t for the weed, Eddie’s sure he’d have panic whispering to him in the back of his mind for implying too much tonight. Richie doesn’t acknowledge it and neither does he; they lay back and look at the stars, smoking until there’s nothing left. Richie’s gaze eventually falls upon his mouth and he frowns, sitting up.

“Your lips are blue.” He stands, offering his hand to help Eddie up. “Let’s go to my place and make pasta, I’m hungry.” They walk with their arms wrapped around one another, avoiding patches of ice and giggling to themselves over nothing. They throw their coats onto the floor and gather up all the stuff they need to cook after Eddie gets signed in, taking the elevator down to the common area and into the kitchen. It’s a disgusting kitchen, with dust and grime that makes Eddie feel sick; he wipes it down before he does anything else.

Then, they cook. Well, _ Richie _ cooks and he just watches, sitting on a bar stool with his chin propped up on his hand and scrolling through songs to choose from. He decides on something and earns a toothy, crooked grin from Richie once the music starts. It isn’t long before hunger gnaws at his stomach too, but he doesn’t pay much attention to it. He realizes how high he must be, overcome with a floaty feeling and managing to focus more on trivial details. Emotions come easier; he doesn’t worry about what they mean or what they could do, he just feels them.

His eyes are on Richie. This fleeting, intoxicating moment is his salvation; where electro-soul lyrics lull in the humming air, soda from the vending machine fizzes across his tongue, and wild curls bounce with the slight swaying of hips — it’s only beautiful _ because _ of Richie, gone before either of them can drown in it. This mediocre life he’s been trying to build, the little pains of running from his own childhood and struggling to find a metropolitan daydream, almost feels perfect now that _ he's _ in it. The boring, beige kitchen with chipped counters and rusty appliances feels like a home of some sort, it’s own kind of safe haven. Eddie’s sure he’d gladly cut open his own chest if it meant the moment would last the rest of his life, how short it’d end up being. Where blood would pour onto these laminate floors and his fingers would twitch, he’d spend his final seconds trying to give Richie his barely beating heart. If only he could.

Every so often, Richie will look over his shoulder, away from the flame-kissed skillet with bubbling tomato sauce, and softly smile; those thick glasses can’t hide the honey in his eyes and he knows he feels the same. It’s been such a short amount of time and, yet, it feels like they’ve known each other their entire lives. Years spent having fun and being kids instead of trying to grow up and rid their souls of teeming trauma or, at least, Eddie’s soul; sometimes they can be angry they never got that chance, but not right now. Moments like these, where they pretend making pasta is like cooking a decadent meal and try to forget they’re not living on their own, are the only things that make them feel normal again. Eddie wants to chase this feeling forever.

“Like what you see, Kaspbrak?” Richie grins, gaze quickly traveling down and back up again. His t-shirt is slipping off his shoulder and his jeans hang low on his hips, maybe it’s because he’s dancing or maybe it’s because they’re a little too big like the rest of his clothes. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose with the back of his hand and looks back to the boiling water once Eddie’s face turns bright red, satisfied with the reaction.

** _— messages: Totally Smitten Stan —_ **

** _Eds [1:51 AM]:  
_ ** _ what did you call that thing? _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [1:53 AM]:  
_ ** _ excuse me? _

** _Eds [1:54 AM]:  
_ ** _ oh shit you’re actually awake.  
_ ** _Eds [1:54 AM]:  
_ ** _ what did you call that thing??? _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [1:55 AM]:  
_ ** _ you’re gonna have to be a bit more specific_

** _Eds [1:56 AM]:  
_ ** _ when your brain goes stupid _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [1:58 AM]:  
_ ** _ are you drunk? _

** _Eds [1:59 AM]:  
_ ** _ no.  
_ ** _Eds [1:59 AM]:  
_ ** _ i am high though.  
_ ** _Eds [1:59 AM]:  
_ ** _ but that’s not the point!!!!  
_ ** _Eds [1:59 AM]:  
_ ** _ you talked about it like 2 weeks ago.  
_ ** _Eds [1:59 AM]:  
_ ** _ something about dumb.  
_ ** _Eds [1:59 AM]:  
_ ** _ because pretty boys. _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [2:00 AM]:  
_ ** _ are you with Richie? _

** _Eds [2:01 AM]:  
_ ** _ who else? _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [2:03 AM]:  
_ ** _ gay panic _

** _Eds [2:04 AM]:  
_ ** _ OK yeah that.  
_ ** _Eds [2:04 AM]:  
_ ** _ i feel that.  
_ ** _Eds [2:04 AM]:  
_ ** _ thanks Stan. _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [2:05 AM]:  
_ ** _ you can’t tell me that Richie’s giving you a Gay Panic™  
__moment and not explain what it is _

** _Eds [2:05 AM]:  
_ ** _ [RichieTozierIsCooking.img] _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [2:06 AM]:  
_ ** _ you’re getting all hot and bothered because he’s  
making you pasta??  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [2:06 AM]:  
_ ** _ literally anyone can make pasta  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [2:06 AM]:  
_ ** _ i’m actually surprised Richie can make anything  
without burning the place to the ground _

** _Eds [2:08 AM]:  
_ ** _ [RichieTozierCanDance.vid] _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [2:10 AM]:  
_ ** _ oh  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [2:10 AM]:  
_ ** _ oh wow _

** _Eds [2:11 AM]:  
_ ** _ EXACTLY STANIEL _

“Hey, Spaghetti. The spaghetti’s done,” Richie says, taking solace in the eye roll he gets in response. They sit at the counter and eat — talking about assignments they’re dreading and cracking jokes about Eddie’s inability to finish a paper earlier than the day of. All the while, that feeling stays with them. The coveted-after metropolitan daydream stays when they wash dishes and haul everything back up to Richie’s dorm. It stays when they collapse onto the couch and fall asleep together. It’s even still there when Eddie wakes up in the morning, grabbing his stuff to leave and make it to class on time. He feels empty once it fades, spending the whole lecture doodling on his hand and hardly paying attention. His phone dings once he’s out and the sight of Richie’s contact name lights a fire back in his chest.


	6. could've cut it with a knife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s something so small and something so trivial brings the feeling on, but Richie knows him like the back of his hand; he knows him more than anybody he’s ever let into his life. As they’re curled up on the couch, paying a weirdly large amount of attention to drinking and overwhelmed with the smell of each other’s cologne, it’s nearly suffocating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [this part's just for me to know i edited this chapter]

** FEBRUARY **

Richie's insistence that Eddie comes to every last one of his auditions, calling him his good luck charm, and promising that it’ll go badly if he isn’t there has him in the art building again. He doesn’t really mind, not as much as he pretends to, and shows up to them all even when it’s still snowing outside. The first one is pretty short, fifteen minutes of sitting in the hallway and getting a video from Beverly of Richie’s performance — a strange scene about the Napoleonic Code that he told her to save anyway; he adds it to the folder on his phone called Trashmouth, which he prays no one else will find.

The callback audition, however, takes much longer than the first. He’s been sitting against the graffitied lockers for a while, trying to ignore the dull ache in his back, and hearing yelling voices from the room every so often; it sounds like they’re doing a serious scene together. He knows something’s off, though, after the chorus of thank you’s he hears and the both of them come out from the room.

The first thing he sees are Richie’s hands on Beverly’s shoulders, steadying and guiding her toward the steps. He follows them quietly, watching her collapse in a chair underneath the stairwell — that’s when he realizes she’s crying. Her hair is disheveled, her jacket is falling off her shoulders, and her face is red. All of the muscles in her hands are twitching, hardly able to hold onto Richie’s when he offers but still trying. There’s terror written across her eyes, it’s in every last cell of blue. Beverly is one of the most fearless people he’s ever met. _ What is she afraid of? _She’s haunted, but Eddie doesn’t know from what and it fills him with dread.

“I’m sorry, Bev,” he mumbles. His thumb rubs letters into her skin, spelling out words. He’s kneeling by her side, leaning his head against her arm. Eddie knows the look on his face because he’s seen it a lot. Richie’s angry with himself.

“What happened?” he asks. He sits down on the dirty floor without a second thought; there are more important things to worry about.

“There was this scene, our characters were sort of arguing and then it, uh...” He glances at Beverly as if asking for permission, but she doesn’t glance back. “I don’t know what to say to him.” She doesn’t respond, just staring off into space with tears rolling down her freckled cheeks. She isn’t there, not really; disoriented and drowning in whatever’s in her head. He squeezes her hand and she shrugs slightly, still barely acknowledging that he’s there until it gets through. Her teeth dig into her bottom lip and her leg bounces, shoe tapping against the tile. Finally, she looks up.

“My dad used to touch me when I was little.” she says. It knocks the wind from Eddie’s lungs. He doesn’t know how to react, not when she says it so calmly and not without fury for the knowledge. She runs a free hand through the waves of her hair; it’s a bit longer than when she first met him, down to her shoulders. The twitch at the corner of her mouth makes him think she doesn’t like the length anymore.

“I got out after middle school and I lived with my aunt but I still—” A sob rips through her and he can feel his heart shatter. _ Not calm, _ he thinks. It’s just the serenity before the storm. She crumples under the weight of it all, collapsing into herself and crying. Eddie doesn’t know what to do, frozen and overwhelmed with so many emotions. Richie, ever the hero, knows how to help.

“Hey, it’s alright” he says softly, “you’re right here. Do you think you could remember what color Eddie’s socks are without looking?” It takes her a while to think, but her breathing slows while she concentrates.

“Purple,” she says, muffled.

“What about the song we listened to in the car on our way to lunch?” It takes even longer for her to think, but her breathing slows even more. Eddie thinks Richie might be a genius. That is, until closer speculation. Then, he thinks he might have gone to intensive therapy for some period of time. He pushes the thought away, another thing he doesn’t know if he wants to find out.

“Nova by Local Natives.” Beverly turns her head to the side, lying her cheek against her arm, and looks at Richie. “You can touch me now.” He doesn’t hesitate, moving closer, taking the hand not holding hers, and putting it on her shoulder. Her arms are thrown around him in an instant and she starts sobbing again, if not for the memories reeling through her head then the safety his arms bring. She mumbles something into the crook of his neck and his eyes squeeze shut in response; it must’ve been something heartbreaking to hear.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says. The sureness of his voice makes Eddie realize how much he must love her. In another life, he supposes, maybe they’d be soulmates. They might be soulmates now; the type of love that’s never meant to be romantic, they adore one another and that’s enough. He wonders, if Richie weren’t gay, if they’d be together but his thoughts cease when he hears his voice.

“Can you get some Pepto from the store? I’ll pay you back later, she gets nauseous when—” He stops when he sees a bottle already shoved toward his face. Eddie’s always prepared. It’s the only thing he can thank his mother for: an entire pharmacy kept in his backpack. Richie sees the contents of it no matter how quickly he zips it back up. He has a look in his eyes Eddie dreads. It’s a _ we’ll talk about it later _ look. But, right now, they focus on Beverly. Her hands still shake when she grabs the water bottle from Richie and more tears roll down her cheeks when she shuts her eyes to swallow the caplets. She’s back in his arms right after.

“I can still feel his hands on me sometimes.” Her voice is muffled against the bright fabric of Richie’s shirt but, this time, Eddie can hear. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget how scared he made me feel. That’s why I’m alone. I think I’ll always be alone.” The words keep coming like water from a broken levee. A repeated, strung together mess of trauma and heartache spills from her mouth. She can’t stop, not until the memories of it all wrap around her limbs and subdue her into silence. Eddie can’t tell which is worse.

“You’re never alone, Bev,” Eddie says. He may not know how to help but he knows that much is true. So long as he and Richie are alive, so long as the rest of the Losers are alive, Beverly will never be alone. “We’re always here.” He can see the tension in her shoulders dissipate, remembering her friends all over again.

“Yeah, you think you’re ever gonna be rid of me?” Richie glances over at Eddie and winks, a grateful smile. It makes his cheeks heat up and guilt rises with the blood. Then, Richie counts, eventually her breathing is slower and the tears stop. Eddie isn’t sure how long they’ve been there; he still doesn’t know what to do, not until he helps Beverly to her feet and they walk out the neon doors to the snow-covered sidewalks. He doesn’t pay much attention until he hears Beverly talking like her normal self, albeit a little worn out. 

“I’ll be fine next time,” she insists.

“No,” Richie says, “no next time, Bev.”

“I just wasn’t ready. I didn’t think you’d jump right into it. I know now.” The words make Richie’s face lose color, he changes the subject.

“Do you want me to drive you home?”

“No, I can manage.” She slinks out from under his arm and wipes the tears from her eyes. The worst of it seems to be over, her breathing is steady again. “Hey, uh, you guys should come by my place on Valentine’s Day. I’m inviting the rest of the Losers ‘cause we’re all single.” The look she gives Eddie suggests something about that could change. He doesn’t want to go regardless.

The last party he went to with the Losers ended in disaster; he knows it isn’t fair to say it as if it was their fault, they’d gone home early (save for three) and it was Richie who made him so upset, but he wants to steer clear for a while. He doesn’t need another night of babysitting a drunk Richie and keeping him from leaving with a stranger despite not being able to stand on his own — one experience like that was enough, especially the way it ended.

“Is it just gonna be the seven of us?” he asks. Richie barely hides a side-eye.

“‘Course.”

“We’ll be there, Bev.” Richie smiles, the lack of a joke seems to hum in the air. Eddie wishes, for once, that he’d make some crude comments about his dick or talk about fucking someone’s mom. But, he doesn’t. He hugs Beverly before she leaves and throws his arm around Eddie’s shoulders, they walk home in silence. Something about it feels oddly different and they aren’t sure they like it.

★★★

Beverly’s apartment is _ her _ — an art deco reverie with brick walls built to shield prying eyes and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a glittering, urban paradise. Eddie’s nearly speechless when he walks in, realizing just how hard she has to work in order to afford the things she has. He knows she’s mentioned it before: the campus cafe, a salon, thrifting for everything, and selling the clothes she makes on occasion. If he didn’t know, he wouldn’t think there have been a number of times where one of the Losers insisted on buying her dinner because she hadn’t eaten for a few days or where they’ve taken to sneakily putting some cash in her purse when she isn’t paying attention.

“Bev, how the hell did you put all this together?” He plops down on the couch and throws his legs over the arm of it, laying his head in Richie’s lap once he sits down too. Beverly gives them a look, as if she’s about to complain they’re taking up so much space but decides against it.

“Barely. Once you guys move out for the summer, Bill’s gonna move in and help with rent for a year or two. It’s cheaper for him in the long run than dorming and easier for me with another person,” she says. She opens the fridge to rifle through and finds two bottles of cheap beer; she opens them and only gives one to Richie, saving the other for herself. She knows Eddie well enough to gesture to a bottle of unopened red wine on the counter he’s eager to get his hands on.

“Lonely in paradise, Bev? If you wanted to steal my roommate without a fight, you shouldn’t have warned me.” Richie gets up before Eddie has the chance, uncorking the bottle and pouring a glass. In those few seconds, more immediate and absent-minded than any of the many times before, Eddie thinks of kissing him. It’s damn near instinct when he hands the glass to him, sitting back down on the couch and pretending not to notice when he quickly presses his lips to his cheek. It’s fast and terrifying and over in an instant. Things feel normal again, but Eddie’s lips feel like they’re tingling when Richie’s hands find his hair. He leans his head on his shoulder and tries to ignore it, but it demands attention. 

It’s something so small and something so trivial brings the feeling on, but Richie _ knows _ him like the back of his hand; he knows him more than anybody he’s ever let into his life. As they’re curled up on the couch, paying a weirdly large amount of attention to drinking and overwhelmed with the smell of each other’s cologne, it’s nearly suffocating. _ Sickly boy. _ He pushes the voice away. Then, Richie silently wraps his arm around him and he thinks he might be having heart palpitations; he’s grateful they’re not looking at one another, otherwise he’d see the way his hand shakes as he brings the wine glass to his lips. _ Filthy boy. _ He pushes it away again. Beverly, of course, notices.

“You can get another roommate,” Beverly says, hiding a smile at Eddie’s thankful glance for changing the tone of the room, “maybe if you kiss up to Eddie he’ll think about it.” She wants to revel in the fact she’s brought a blush to Richie’s face, but another knock on the door has her up and answering before she can. Stan and Mike show up together, Bill not far behind, and Ben last having just come from another poetry club meeting. They get comfortable, crowding in a circle around the coffee table and grabbing drinks — everyone but Eddie and Stan drink beer, opting for the wine instead.

“Let’s play a game, guys.” Beverly gets up to grab a giant bottle of tequila from the freezer, balancing a number of shot glasses in her arms and setting them all down on the table with a bottle opener for those who want more beer. “I think we should play Never Have I Ever, I wanna know more of what shit y’all are into.” Her eyes narrow when she looks toward Stan, whose posture gets worse as if he’s been caught hiding a dirty secret. “I know you’re way kinkier than you’ve been letting on.”

“Fuck yeah, let’s do it.” Richie sits up, letting Eddie flop against the couch cushions from the sudden lack of support to lean on. He ignores the glare set on him. “Okay,” he says, “never have I ever fucked someone who was married.”

“Jesus, Ruh-Richie.” Bill gives him a strange face, but Stan pours and takes a shot; the room somehow gets even louder, bursting into a mess of yells of _ BULLSHIT _ and _ what the fuck _ directed toward him. “Stan, yuh-you’ve got to explain th-that one.” Eddie’s the only one who doesn’t ask.

“No way,” he says. If looks could kill, Richie would drop dead and Beverly would at least be injured; he doesn’t need to look at Eddie, he knows he won’t dredge through the history. He scoots a little closer to Mike as if remembering the entire thing again and Mike, despite being completely in the dark, seems to be able to comfort him.

“Never have I ever seen someone in this room’s nudes.” Clinking and mumbled curses follow, Bill and Richie drink. Something lurches in Eddie’s chest. He knows he shouldn’t be jealous, but he doesn’t fail to make the connection upon remembering how he walked in on the two of them making out on Halloween. He thinks, maybe, Mike’s will be easier to hear.

“Never have I ever taken multiple people’s virginity.” Okay, maybe not. Beverly, Richie, and Stan all drink. He tries not to think about it. He knew the three of them would end up drinking the most, but learning this much about Richie’s sex life in such a short amount of time isn’t exactly on his to do list. It puts too many thoughts in his head.

“Okay,” Beverly says, already pouring two shots, “never have I ever got in a fist fight with my roommate.” Richie frowns and Bill grabs one of the glasses.

“You’re targeting us on purpose,” Richie whines. He downs the shot without issue and flips her off when she offers an innocent smile.

“Wait, you two got in a fight? Like an _ actual _ fight?” Ben asks.

“We wuh-were drinking and—”

“Oh, I got it then,” he interrupts, making Eddie snort. Richie glances over at him as if realizing he’s playing too, as if realizing he hasn’t taken a shot yet. He feels his cheeks heat up and hopes no one else can tell.

“Never have I ev-ever decided to pluh-play video games instead of have suh-sex.” A chorus of groans follow and Bill grins. Stan, Richie, Mike, and Ben drink; Eddie thinks it’s the first time Ben has taken a shot so far and doesn’t feel as embarrassed about not being super experienced with things.

“I’m gonna need you guys to stop trying to get me drunk,” Richie says, leaning back against the couch and smiling to himself when Eddie leans against him. He lets his fingers graze against his cheek, quickly putting his arm back to his side when a few gazes shift their way.

“Never have I ever wanted to have sex with someone in this room,” Ben says. For a moment, fear pangs through Eddie. He should drink, he knows, but if he does then everyone — save for her and Stan — will think he wants to sleep with Beverly. He doesn’t take one, but he watches everyone else. Only him and Ben don’t take a shot, Eddie finds himself wondering who wants who. Stan is the easiest, he thought of Richie before. Bill probably thought of Beverly and Beverly of Bill. But, Mike is a mystery to him. He tries not to linger on the possibilities of Richie’s, the ones that fill him with hope and the ones that fill him with envy. He’s lost in thought until he feels Richie nudge him. It’s his turn.

“Never have I ever compared my dick size to another dude’s.” He sees Richie and Bill take a shot.

“Juh-just so you know, that’s why I’ve suh-seen Richie’s nudes,” Bill says, trying to hide the sheepish look in his eyes. Beverly smiles.

“Who ended up the happier one in that situation, Trashmouth?” Stan ignores the eye roll it earns him and pinches Richie’s leg. Maybe it’s because he’s biased, or maybe it’s because he wants it to be true, but Eddie bets Richie is the one who won the contest. The look shared between him and Bill is all the confirmation Eddie needs.

“I’m not gonna answer,” he says, taking a sip from the beer he’s been neglecting since the game started. Eddie doesn’t know how he can mix flavors. “Never have I ever made a sex tape.” Stan drinks again, his entire face turning red when Mike looks his way and leans a little closer to him; he whispers something in his ear that makes Mike nod and he drops it.

Eddie knows the story behind that too, the same married man from his freshman year. He wonders if he’s forgiven himself for it yet, a gay awakening brought on by an accounting professor in his thirties ending in heartbreak. He doesn’t ever ask. If he did, he’d learn Stan is still a little messed up (okay, _ a lot _messed up) because of it. If he did, he’d learn Stan can’t even admit what it really was; he isn’t stupid enough to not know, he’s reluctant to acknowledge he does. If he did, he’d learn things about him that’d break his heart in two. But, Eddie doesn’t ask. So, he doesn’t know.

“Never have I ever gotten caught fucking in a public place,” Stan says, reveling in the fact he’s gotten Richie, Bill, and Beverly to drink.

“I knew you were too prudish for that kinda shit,” Richie jokes, downing another shot. How many has he had? He’s sure it’s at least been six, his words are starting to slur a bit like Stan’s.

“I do that shit a lot, Trashmouth, I just don’t get caught.” Stan manages to duck when Richie hurls a pillow toward his head. Laughter floods the room, even louder than the playlist they’d put on a while ago, and warmth floods Eddie’s heart. He’s never known what it’s like to feel like he belongs somewhere — not like this.

The game continues on, each round getting more and more obscure. Eddie learns a lot more about Richie’s sex life, who is now the second most drunk next to Stan. It’s mostly about how he’s been having a lot of one-night stands lately; something Eddie both didn’t know and doesn’t want to, filled with jealousy he can barely hide. There are a lot of interruptions for stories, gross amounts of detail only make it more difficult for him to listen but, eventually, the game continues.

Him and Ben are the most sober, tied at only three shots; he knows he shouldn’t, that he should cut himself some slack, but Eddie feels insecure. The feeling stays with him even after the game ends and they pile on the couch to watch a movie, but quickly disappears when Richie grabs him and pulls him onto his lap; something about making more space for everyone else, an excuse no one believes but none of them argue about it. He pulls his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around Richie’s neck, laying his head against his. Stan, squished between them and Mike, catches a glimpse of them and smiles; he knows he’ll get asked about it later.

Eddie can smell the alcohol on his breath, hear his heart pounding, and feel his shallow breathing. He wonders if he’s as nervous as he is, wishing he could find the courage to _ say _ something. Why can’t it be like this all the time? Why can’t they ignore the details and labels? Why can’t they do this forever? He knows it’s selfish to want it, Richie deserves to know if that ends up being the case. He deserves to know Eddie isn’t fucking around with his emotions.

“Look, I don’t wanna question your choice in movies, Bev,” Richie starts.

“Then don’t.”

“But, if we went with _ my _ choice, we could be watching Timothée Chalamet have a gay awakening in 1980s Italy.”

“No one wants to watch a dude masturbate with a peach, Rich.”

“Speak for yourself.” He glances over as Beverly erupts with laughter, everyone else follows. Eddie can feel his whole body shaking and bouncing with each laugh; hands don’t leave him though, keeping him steady no matter the tears forming in his eyes and the aches in his sides.

“When did you get funny?” Stan asks, a hand finding its way to Richie’s shoulder. Eddie gets a feeling in the pit of his stomach, soft but pulsing, and tightens his hold on Richie; he doesn’t think the joke is funny enough for that and Stan never laughs at the things he says. Less of them are laughing, a little interested in the strange energy the room has now. At least he isn’t the only one to notice.

“I’ve always been funny, Totally Smitten. I guess it took you eight shots of tequila to notice.” Richie shrugs, digging his fingers into Eddie’s hips as if to tell him something. The last of the laughter stops dead in its tracks when Stan leans over and kisses Richie, who leans back and has a hand on his chest to keep him from trying again. It’s silent enough to hear footsteps — Mike’s footsteps — when he gets up and leaves. Eddie’s frozen, staring off at the cream colored door Mike left out of and feeling a snap somewhere in his chest. He knows he shouldn’t be jealous, that he shouldn’t be angry, because Stan’s always thought Richie was attractive and he’s the drunkest he’s ever seen him, but he is.

“Holy sh-shit,” Bill mumbles. Stan looks around the room, at the shocked and confused faces, and starts breathing a bit faster, realizing what he’d done.

“I’m so sorry.” Tears are in his eyes and, immediately, Beverly is there; she grabs his hand and brings him to his feet, they stumble toward her bedroom door.

“C’mon, honey. You should lay down, you drank a lot,” she says, voice so soft and kind. They disappear behind the door and stay there for a while. No one can hear what they say, but they hear the crying in the silence of the paused movie. She’s back in her spot by Bill after a bit and Eddie still can’t move.

“Why does everyone kiss _ me _ when they’re drunk?” Richie frowns, slips his arms around Eddie’s waist, and squeezes until he’s closer. No one says a word, but Beverly’s eyes say enough. Even if the others don’t know, they’re recognizing something. He can’t bring himself to care. He _ wants _ Richie to hold him. He wants everyone to see.

“You’re juh-just that hot.” Bill smiles, trying to lighten the mood, and takes a swig of his drink. It sort of works, there’s forced laughter and a few genuine smiles. They go back to the movie, more interested than ever before, and Eddie tries to ignore the flickering images of Richie’s lips on Bill’s. He tries to ignore the sight of Stan’s lips on Richie’s. Everything pulls at the strings he tries so desperately to keep tied together.

** _— messages: Mikey —_ **

** _Eds [10:26 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ hey, why’d you go? _

** _Mikey [10:27 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ I didn’t want to stick around for all the tension. _ _   
_ ** _Mikey [10:28 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Besides, I wanted to get home sort of early anyway. _ _   
_ _ Seemed like good timing I guess. _

** _Eds [10:29 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ yeah, you’re lucky to miss it. _ _   
_ ** _Eds [10:29 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ you could’ve cut through it with a knife. _

** _Mikey [10:33 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Can you make sure he gets home okay? _ _   
_ ** _Mikey [10:33 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ He’s really drunk and I don’t want him driving. _

** _Eds [10:34 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Bev is gonna keep him here for the night i think. _ _   
_ ** _Eds [10:34 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ she for sure has his keys. _

** _Mikey [10:37 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ What happened after? _

** _Eds [10:38 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ he started crying and she took him to her room to lay down. _ _   
_ ** _Eds [10:38 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ everyone’s just watching the movie in total silence now. _ _   
_ _ i don’t think anyone even knows what to say. _

** _Mikey [10:41 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Are you okay? _

** _Eds [10:41 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ wdym? _

** _Mikey [10:42 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Come on, man. I saw your face. _

** _Eds [10:43 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ idk what you mean. _ _   
_ ** _Eds [10:43 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ i was busy being traumatized. _ _   
_ ** _Eds [10:43 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Stan was kissing Richie like right on top of me. _

** _Mikey [10:44 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Well, still. _ _   
_ ** _Mikey [10:44 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ You alright? _

** _Eds [10:46 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ i’m fine. _

** _Mikey [10:47 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ You sure? _

** _Eds [10:47 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ yes. _

Eddie knows Mike’s only trying to be a good friend, but he wishes he wouldn’t. His heart won’t slow down, not after that. _ I saw your face. _ He can’t focus on anything else. For the next two movies they watch, it’s all he can think about. _ Did _ he make a face? Did he look as jealous or as sad as he felt? Did anyone else notice? Did Richie? He only manages to stop thinking when Richie tries to stand up.

“I think I wanna head back,” he says, stretching his legs once he gets off his lap and stands up too. Richie drove him, whenever he leaves so does Eddie. Before they can walk past the couch, Beverly grabs Richie’s hand and yanks him back toward her, pulling him down so she can kiss him on the cheek. He just grins. “Yowza.” She rolls her eyes at him, but she smiles too.

“Let Eddie drive, sweetheart. You drank as much as Stan did.”

“Kiss me again and I’ll think about it.” He anticipates the punch headed toward his shoulder before she can land her fist there, barely moving out of the way fast enough. They’re both laughing, all of them are — except Eddie and Bill. “Okay, okay. I’ll let our darling Eddie drive. Keeps my hands free while I think about you anyway, baby.” She swings at him again, this time getting him in the arm, and they laugh even more.

“What’re you picturing this time? The sweet, sweet love we made on the counter or on the hood of your car?”

“God, not the car. I think that was right around your pregnancy scare.”

“Fuck off, Trashmouth. Even in your jokes, that’s revolting.”

“We’d make beautiful babies and you know it.” He winks at her and all Eddie can think about is how much he wants to go home. Why is he jealous of _ Beverly? _ He knows she doesn’t have feelings for Richie. “Besides, we both know you can’t stay away from my huge co—”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Eddie mutters, pushing past Richie and trudging out the door. He makes it to the car before he realizes he doesn’t have the keys. He’s almost glad he doesn’t have them, he has half a mind to leave Richie here.

“Hey, Eddie. What the hell?” Speak of the devil.

“Do you ever fucking keep it in your pants?” Eddie snaps. He throws his jacket on the hood of the car and yanks on the driver’s side handle even though it’s locked. Richie frowns, eyebrows furrowing and smile disappearing.

“That’s kinda just my business, don’tcha think?”

“Yeah, well, if it was then you wouldn’t fucking talk about where you wanna put your dick all the time,” he says. Everything from tonight is swirling in his blood — the things he knows from the game and what it makes him feel, Stan’s kiss and what Mike said about it, the images put in his head by his jokes with Beverly. Not all of it is bad; he still feels the phantom touch of Richie’s hands on his hips and remembers the rush of adrenaline he had after kissing him on the cheek.

“Okay,” Richie says, tossing the keys across the hood, “okay, fine. Let’s do this then.”

“Do what?” He doesn’t touch the keys, avoiding the dark eyes that seem to want to swallow him whole.

“I don’t wanna get with Stan and you know it because I _ told _you he wasn’t my type. I don’t know why he kissed me and, quite fucking frankly, I’m pretty pissed off about it but I wasn’t going to say anything until he’s sober tomorrow.” He starts walking around the car, looming closer to Eddie with each step. Something burns in his stomach.

“The Halloween thing with Bill came out of his curiosity, if you’ve still got a stick up your ass about that. And, not like it’s any of your business, I think if you try hard enough you’ll remember he _ asked.” _ He’s even closer — a few feet away — but he doesn’t stop there and neither does the fire in Eddie.

“Beverly knows I’m kidding because she jokes about it too, like everybody jokes about it with me. And, just as a reminder in case you’re forgetting, I like _dick.”_ They’re only inches apart. Richie looks down at him, seemingly taller than he’s ever been, and his jaw sets.

“I’m only worried about you, okay?”

“Don’t bullshit me.”

“I’m not bullshitting you, Rich. You make stupid decisions all the time and if you think I’m gonna ignore the shit you pulled last week then you’re even more of a dumbass than I thought.” His anger stumbles, briefly, but recovers.

“Again, not like it’s your business,” he says, “but I’m _ safe. _I’m not sleeping around to be reckless, I’m—” And then he stops dead. His eyes go wide and Eddie waits; he knows it was something important, that he almost opened up to him about something personal and backed out at the last second. He wants to ask him to say it anyway, but Richie stands up straighter and frowns as if already expecting him to ask.

“I don’t owe you an explanation about my sex life. I get where you were coming from last week and I appreciate the concern but you didn’t have to get involved.”

“Richie, you—”

“I was _ fine. _And I’m not gonna fucking talk about it again. Anything else you want to go over?”

“No.”

“Well, I have something.” He steps even closer, barely inches away, and Eddie swears his heart will explode. The pause is agonizing. “Why the fuck do you care who I let into my bed, Eddie?” he asks, voice low. It stops his heart dead and he almost thinks it’s a dare — a challenge to see if he’ll say anything. And he realizes what Richie wants him to do, but he can’t find the courage. He wants to tell him the truth. _ Just say it, _ he thinks. _ Just tell him. _

“I don’t,” he whispers hoarsely, “I’m sorry. I guess I’m jealous.” The anger in Richie’s eyes vanishes as they go wide, his mouth slightly agape, and terror floods Eddie’s body. “I mean I haven’t done anything and I’m in my fucking twenties, you know?” He tries to save himself, stumbling on all the words, and he’s not sure if it works. He hates himself for it, for not being brave enough. Whether he believes him or not, Richie shakes his head, grabbing the keys and putting them in his hand.

“Take me home,” he sighs. They climb in the car and drive. It’s silent the entire way back. Eddie swears he can _ feel _ the frustration radiating off Richie’s skin but doesn’t dare to bring it up. The streetlights flash lightning across his freckled skin and the radio is playing a random song, connected to his phone by memory. He finds them a spot at the top of the parking garage and helps Richie not to stumble down the sidewalk. They only talk once he’s at the door to his building, about to disappear behind it.

“I think Mike likes Stan,” he says.

“Really?” Eddie stares at him, completely deadpanned. Mike never mentioned his sexuality being anything but straight and he can’t remember Stan ever implying anything else. “I don’t see it.”

“You’ve gotta be oblivious then. You should talk to him about it.”

“How do you know?”

“You should’ve seen the look on his face after Stan kissed me,” he says, walking inside without another word. Eddie thinks he might puke. _ I saw your face. I saw your face. I saw your face. _ He knows, maybe he’s always known, that he has feelings for Richie. He just hopes Richie doesn’t know too.

★★★

“I don’t even know how to apologize enough. I’m so sorry, Eddie, it was such a shit move and I feel really terrible._ ” _ Stan looks at Eddie, almost unable to from the guilt weighing him down. Somewhere in the light brown of his eyes is a sea of self-loathing and heartbreak.

“You shouldn’t be apologizing to me, Richie’s the one you made a move on.” But, Stan shifts in his seat, shirt falling a little more open; he’s been experimenting with his clothes, settling, for now, on silk shirts and skinny jeans. Eddie’s eyes find a tattoo he didn’t know he had — a Chickadee taking flight on his right pec. It looks older and faded, professional compared to the various ones Richie’s gotten from Beverly’s stick and poke kit or his own.

“I’m still sorry.”

“I forgive you, man. It’s not like I’m with him or anything and you were really drunk.”

“That’s not an excuse,” he argues. Eddie just shrugs. He’s not oblivious, he can see the common denominator in every bad decision Stan makes — what (or who) is mentioned before things go to shit. He won’t bring it up, but he has an idea.

“Maybe not, but I’m not mad. He was, uh, he wasn’t happy though, Stan.” He sighs in answer, hands splayed across the damp towel. He doesn’t have his pendant to fiddle with.

“I know, I called him. He said he’d meet me for coffee. But, I need your point of view on something.” Somewhere in the light brown color is a sea of self-loathing and heartbreak.

“On what?”

“Uh…” He stares at the table, a red blush blooming across his cheeks that could put the most beautiful rose petals to shame. “Okay, so, don’t freak out.”

“Totally makes me wanna freak out, but continue.” Stan rolls his eyes and taps the cup when he takes a sip, earning one for himself.

“For context, Mike and I have been sleeping together for a few months,” he lowers his voice. Eddie stares at him, eyes wide because, of course, Richie was right. How did he not notice? “I didn’t wanna say anything because it was a lowkey thing, but I sort of fucked up.”

“What do you mean?” Eddie asks. He ignores how much of a bombshell the information is, but it’s hard to.

“I can fill in all the gory details later if you want but, basically, we had a friends with benefits thing going on since Halloween. I like him, you know, but it’s hard for me to think about dating so I was fine with things staying the way they were.” They don’t acknowledge how sad it sounds, or how sad it actually is. The more Eddie thinks about it, the more obvious it is Stan and Mike are perfect for one another. He realizes how much sense the texts sent last night make.

“Over break, he called me and he was all worked up,” Stan keeps explaining, “told me he had feelings for me and wanted to be my boyfriend and I freaked out. Things were weird but fine, we stopped having sex, and now he won’t answer my texts.”

“Shit.” It’s all Eddie can say.

“Yeah.”

“Dude, you’ve gotta talk to him, like, right now.”

“If he’ll talk to me,” he says, grabbing his bag from the ground and slinging it over his shoulder. He stands up, pushing the chair back in. His fingers curl around the edge of the table. “Thanks, Eddie.” He leaves, holding onto the bag for dear life and weaving through people until he’s nothing more than a blur on the edge of Eddie’s vision. He doesn’t even know what to think, he doesn’t have much time to figure it out before the reminder for his appointment with Cara goes off. He has good news for this week and he damn near throws open the door to her office once he gets there; a big, dumb smile on his face while he’s hardly able to contain himself.

“I wrote it,” he says before he can sit down, “I mean, before, I could only reach the first word and I never got past it. But, I wrote it down.” His hands are shaking, but not from panic — from excitement. He wants to overdose on this feeling; this reckless, drumming feeling he’s only known for such a little amount of time. It reminds him of when he first kissed Richie, before his head clouded with hate and he pushed him away. It reminds him of those short seconds where he kissed him back.

“That’s great progress, Eddie.”

“Just about the only progress I made,” he says, not angry or upset. It’s sort of the truth. Things are bittersweet.

“Things with Richie are still hot and cold?”

“Oh,” he mumbles, “not really. They’re fine, I guess. There’s still a bit of tension sometimes but it's better. I still feel like I owe him an answer, you know? It fucks with everything we do. We all spent Valentine’s Day at Beverly’s and I don’t think I’ve ever been so jealous — except maybe when this guy hit on him right in front of me.” Eddie sees Cara’s expression change. He knows he can say it.

“I think I have feelings for Richie.” He doesn’t think, he knows, and Cara understands. He just starts to laugh, not particularly because things are funny; he’s nervous. It’s the first time he’s ever said it outloud. She starts laughing too. He tries to stop laughing long enough to ask. “What’s so funny?”

“Eddie, I could’ve told you that about fifteen minutes into our first session,” she says. It makes him start laughing again. Boisterous and obnoxious and loud laughter, his sides burn and his eyes water. But, then he’s crying. He doesn’t know why and he’s annoyed. He should be happier. He wishes he was. “Eddie,” she says softly, each syllable laced with concern, “what’s wrong?” He can’t answer. Tears fall and sobs escape his throat and he can’t answer her.

“I’m scared,” Eddie whispers, “I’ve never felt like this. I mean, I’ve had crushes and I’ve thought about it, but they always burned out faster than they lit up. I mean, for fuck’s sake I even—” He stops for a moment, having to remind himself Cara won’t judge him. Thoughts wander to December and Richie’s shower, that was only the first time. It’s gotten a lot more frequent. “I started thinking about him when I...you know?” She nods at him, he can feel his face get hot.

“What’s wrong with feeling like that?”

“I know he liked me.” Eddie says, eyes dropping down to his fingers and how they’re occupied with the zipper on his jacket. “I know he did because I’d have to be a fucking idiot not to realize. But, I don’t know if he does anymore. He’s been sleeping around a bit, I don’t wanna sound like I think bad about him for it because I don’t — I’m jealous and I’m sad.” He’s been avoiding the topic with Richie. Whenever he sees a new hickey barely hiding under the collar of his shirt, or sees another message in the groupchat about a party, he pretends he hasn’t.

“Is that a new thing for him?” 

“No. He’s always done it, I think it just varies in frequency. Who knows, though.”

“Do you two ever talk about sex?”

“No.” Eddie’s skin feels like it’s burning from the inside out. “He only makes jokes about it.” Jokes about _ them. _ He’s never bothered to think about it, he’s never really wanted to think about Richie screwing other people; it puts a bad taste in his mouth. “Do you think he could still like me?”

“I don’t know. You could always ask,” Cara says. She knows he has a weird look on his face before she can finish the sentence. “You thought that about saying you’re gay too. Maybe you need to work up to it.” Every response in his head dies with his laughter. The white noise machine fills up the silence and his fingers still fidget with the zipper. He’s still scared.

“What if he doesn’t like me anymore?”

“Then at least you’ll know and you can start moving on,” she says, scribbling something into the notebook. The idea makes him feel sick. He doesn’t know if he could do it.

“Is it bad to say I’d rather live the rest of my life silently pining over him than trying to unlace him from my heart?” Eddie asks, almost breathless. Cara smiles, almost sadly. It reminds him of Beverly. He knows that look.

“That’s not a healthy outlook to have.”

“It’s still true,” he shrugs, “I don’t want to know what it feels like to not care about him.”

★★★

If there is a god, it hates Eddie Kaspbrak with every fiber of its being. He’s decided as much since Richie stepped in front of the class to read out the random My Sexual Self paper he’s been given. Except, of course, it’s not someone else’s. It’s his. He’s reading _ Eddie’s _ paper. He knows it from the first line. The intrigue of hearing another story is put out like a flame between two fingers — shame and fear — upon realizing it. But, Richie still stands there; curly hair sort of tamed by a baseball cap and Hawaiian shirt more neon than ever with a white long sleeve shirt underneath, he’s holding the paper in his hands.

“I realized I liked boys during my freshman year of high school,” Richie reads, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Eddie can’t breathe. He swears he can _ feel _ the color draining from his face. _ Can everyone tell? Does everyone know? _ “I had to do a project with this guy, who I’ll call Patrick for the sake of anonymity, and he invited me over to his house to finish it. Looking back on it now, I should’ve known I liked him,”

“I mean, people don’t just spend every single class they have with someone staring at them and daydreaming about what kissing them could feel like if they’re not crushing on them hardcore — young me wasn’t very smart.” He smiles to himself and Eddie couldn’t be more grateful he’s presented already. How could he even stand after this? The only reason he’s not bolting out of the room is because he’s afraid everyone will know it’s his. Maybe they already do. The voice in the back of his head is having a field day. _ They know your secret. They know your secret. They know your secret. _ Panic starts to prickle up in his skin.

“I felt nervous the whole time, even though we were hanging out like normal, and I remember thinking my skin was on fire because his hand would brush against mine sometimes,” Richie says. Eddie would have no issue with dropping dead this instant. He presses his hands against the surface of the table to keep them from shaking so much. “It was like that for hours; frequent moments of gay panic and confusion as to _ why _ I felt so anxious in the first place. I didn’t have friends growing up, so I figured everything was normal.” The smile on Richie’s face fades on the last line. _ He knows, he knows, he knows. _ He straightens his posture and pauses for a moment, not daring to look up from the paper. Eddie’s heart is like a drum. Nothing he can tell himself silences the anxiety,

“I came to a rude awakening though. Once the project was finished, Patrick asked if I wanted to stay a little longer. I definitely wasn’t going to pass it up, so I said yeah.” Richie’s voice is cautious, like he doesn’t know how good or bad the situation could go. Eddie, for a fleeting moment, wonders if he’s ever gone through something like this too. “I don’t really know how things continued from there, I remember what happened later.” Images flash and burn into Eddie’s brain; dark hair, lanky limbs, and wide smiles. He realizes how similar the guy looks to Richie. _ Sickly boy. Filthy boy. Delicate boy. _

“We were playing video games and he was losing, so he grabbed a piece of candy he found on the floor and kept shoving it toward my face to distract me.” Richie keeps reading. Eddie can’t smell strawberry Twizzlers without feeling sick to his stomach. “It worked — I’m something of a germaphobe — and I lost that round.” He hates himself for including it. _ He knows, he knows, he knows. _ He doesn’t want Richie to find out this way,

“Mid-screaming at him, he just jumped on me, pinned my hands against the floor, and sat on me. It was the type of position that would’ve made his parents feel awkward about walking in on if they had.” Eddie thinks this might be the first time Richie sounds nervous, no matter how hard he tries to hide it from his voice.

“He kept trying to make me eat the candy and I kept trying to get out from under him. You can see where this is going...grinding hips and prepubescent boys.” A few people chuckle. _ They know your secret, filthy boy. They know and they know and they know and they know. _ He realizes his hands are still shaking, even pressed against the table. His legs are too — knees bouncing and making the chair squeak. How fast is his heart racing? Could it win a marathon? He feels sick. Maybe he’s always been sick. Maybe she was right.

“The fun I was having was butchered when I realized I had a hard on over this. I wasn’t laughing anymore and all I could think was, if he noticed, he would tell everyone.” _ Broken boy. _ Eddie can see Richie shift his weight to his other leg, pursing his lips for a moment. _ Delicate boy. _ It feels like hands wrap around Eddie’s throat and squeeze the air from it, refusing to let him take just one breath. He thinks tears might be in his eyes. _ Diseased boy. _ He stares at the table instead,

“I tried to play it off like things were still fine, a little more insistent that he get off of me and trying so desperately to get away, but it didn’t end up working. He was way stronger than I was and he didn’t realize I was on the verge of tears,” he says, voice delicate. _ Delicate boy. _ Eddie’s vision is blurry and blinding. He knows what’s next. _ He knows. They all know. _ “It was not my finest hour, but I ended up coming in my pants.” Eddie can hear a small chorus of _ oh no _’s from a few people around him. He wants to get up and run — leave his stuff and book it down the hall until he’s out the door. But they’d know, if they don’t already then they would after that. Richie would know too.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been more scared than I was right then. I think I ended up hitting him, I’m not really sure. I know I managed to push him off of me and I started grabbing my stuff.” Richie pauses, as if in thought, and Eddie makes himself look up. The lights burn, but he thinks he might be upset. He looks back at the table. “Patrick stared at me, a little scared and confused, and asked me what was wrong. Then his eyes dropped to the wet spot on my jeans and he went completely silent,”

“I just started crying — I was embarrassed and horrified and I didn’t know what else to do. He tried to get me to stay, even when I was walking out the door, and even tried to talk to me after.” Any emotion in his voice is gone. Eddie can’t focus, he can hear the words but he can’t make himself listen to them. “It’s horrible, but I ignored him. I never spoke to him again…” Richie pauses. It’s quiet and Eddie knows now, if it hasn’t already, Richie’s heart is breaking. He trails back. “I never spoke to him again, even after he came out as gay in our junior year.” His voice is lowered. Eddie knows that tone. _ They all know your secret. _ He’s heard it before. _ He knows, diseased boy. _ He knows. He can’t remember from when.

“As much as I’d tried to ignore it, I knew I liked guys after the whole thing. It wasn’t something I could avoid anymore and it terrified me. I’m in my twenties and writing this paper is the biggest step I’ve taken towards accepting myself.” Richie pushes through anyway, even after the soft awe’s from others. _ Sickly boy, did you think you could hide it forever? _ “I’m gay and there’s nothing wrong with that, but I’m still too scared to do anything about it. I’m scared I’ll never be brave enough to be myself.” Hearing it from Richie all but makes Eddie sob. He clamps his hands down over his mouth and squeezes his eyes shut. _ Be normal for a few minutes. You can leave in the middle of a different one. _ The room is ghostly, silent, and still.

“Thank you, Richie,” the professor says, expecting him to sit back down. He doesn’t. He just stands, staring at the paper entirely motionless. Finally, he looks up and glances at the faces around the room. Eddie forces himself to look up too. If he avoids his gaze, he’ll know. _ Secret’s out, broken boy. _

“I, uh, I don’t know who you are, obviously, but…” Honey eyes briefly catching Eddie’s until he looks back down at the paper. “It’s okay to be scared and I know it’s terrifying. You’re not alone, though. You can be yourself and people will still love you for it.” That’s when Eddie breaks. Richie apologizes under his breath, sits back down next to him, and that’s when he breaks. _ Just wait until the next one, _ he begs himself. _ Please, please wait until the next one. _

But, he can hardly breathe and his entire body is overrun by earthquakes. Everything swirls and clashes together — sights, sounds, sensations. He can’t think save for his mother’s voice. _ Sickly boy. Filthy boy. Delicate boy. _ He feels someone grab his hand. _ Weak boy. Broken boy. Diseased boy. _ He wishes he still had his inhaler and he hates himself for the thought.

“Eds,” Richie whispers. At least, he thinks it’s Richie. Who else would call him that? “Are you okay? Is this okay?” Eddie glances down, seeing their hands clasped together under the table. He doesn’t remember holding so tightly. When his eyes find Richie’s again, he makes himself nod. Eddie knows Richie can tell. _ He knows. _ He’s seen enough of his panic attacks to recognize the signs before they can even start. _ Don’t touch the other boys, Eddie-bear. _ He damn near yanks his hand away, until he feels the tapping. Richie’s reminding him when to breathe. It’s a steady, constant rhythm. It’s enough to keep him steady until the next paper is halfway over, he grabs his stuff and leaves. He gets outside the building before his phone vibrates.

** _— messages: Trashmouth (2) —_ **

** _Trashmouth [5:13 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Do you want me to ditch too? _ _   
_ ** _Trashmouth [5:13 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ I can help _

** _Eds [5:13 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ No. _ _   
_ ** _Eds [5:14 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ just stay. i wasn’t expecting it. _ _   
_ ** _Eds [5:14 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ i’ll be fine. _

** _Trashmouth [5:15 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Are you sure? _

** _Eds [5:17 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ yeah. _ _   
_ ** _Eds [5:17 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ you can swing by later if you want. _

** _Trashmouth [5:18 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Want me to bring ice cream? _

** _Eds [5:19 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ ......yes _

It brings a smile to his face, even twisted and contorted with tears. He lets himself go upon opening his door, a sob escapes his throat and he nearly collapses — until his eyes find Stan and Mike, staring at him wide-eyed. Eddie realizes what’s going on; Stan crowded against the wall, Mike’s hands still slightly up his shirt, and the swollen look of their lips. _ At least they worked things out, _ he wants to think. But, that’s not what happens.

“FUCK!” Eddie cries, throwing his keys against the floor and trudging toward his room. Why can’t he have a moment alone? He’s happy for them, he really is, but he wants one moment that doesn’t remind him who he is. They stare, untangling themselves and looming with caution.

“Hey, Eddie,” Stan mumbles, taking a few steps closer, “you okay?” He knows the answer, but he asks anyway. Eddie waves him away, realizing he needs his keys to unlock his door, and groans. Before Stan can ask anything else, Eddie locks himself in the bathroom. He can’t think, turning the shower to the coldest it can go and shedding all his clothes. It takes a long time, but the water eventually soothes the panic buzzing in his bones. He figures he must be in there for a while, because Stan taps on the door to make sure he’s alright and leaves clean clothes just outside.

It hits Eddie, all at once, that Stan always takes care of him. Stan is a soul in conflict with itself. He’s worn-in cashmere sweaters and the rough edges of stone. Dainty birds with fast heartbeats, hopeless daydreams masked by pessimism, playlists jumbled with classical music and 80s power ballads, and tongues with the ability to cut as quickly as they can heal. He is, at heart, wise and grown but still licked by the flames of adolescence no matter how many times he tries to smother the fire. Sometimes Eddie wonders if he had to grow up too fast, maybe something happened to make him want to run from his childhood too. He figures, most of the time, it’s because of the accounting professor. He never asks, but Stan is always there.

Once Eddie’s dressed, he stumbles into Stan’s room; him and Mike are curled up on the bed, huddled beneath piles of blankets. He tries to remember a time Mike wasn’t there and can’t. He’s a gentle soul if there could only be one. Sweetness and best interests are his whole heart, even if it’s to his own detriment. Eddie realizes Richie, once again, is right — he’s oblivious. In stolen glances, excuses to touch one another, and pairing off while everyone hangs out, he’s oblivious. He tries not to see the connection, but it’s there.

“I like boys,” Eddie says, staring at them both. It’s a little abrupt and makes Stan choke on his drink, even though he already knows. They laugh after that, obnoxious and jittery in a way so natural.

“Join the club.” Mike smiles that big, shining smile which makes everyone swoon and pats the empty space next to him. Eddie can nearly hear Richie’s voice in his head, making a joke he’d surely come up with if he were here. He tries not to grin as much as he wants to, crawling across Stan’s mattress and cuddling up with Mike under the mountain of covers.

“We’re dating,” Stan says. It’s now Eddie notices how their hands are clasped together.

“Good.” His voice is soft, he doesn’t know what else to say. “I’m glad you worked it out.”

“When are you and Richie gonna do the same?”

“Hush,” he frowns, burrowing into Mike’s side, “your boyfriend is comfy.”

“Wait,” Mike says, glancing over at Eddie, “I was right about the Richie thing?” He hopes to whatever god is out there, despite their heinous cruelty earlier, neither of them can see the blush creeping across his face.

“Mikey, literally everyone is waiting for them to get together.”

“Fuck off, Totally Smitten.”

“It’s true! Like, Jesus, you could cut the sexual tension with a knife the other day.”

“Could not,” Eddie mumbles, folding his arms over his chest. Both of them laugh, as if bewildered he could deny it, and turn the TV on. While looking through Hulu for something to watch, they make it clear that, ultimately, it’s Eddie’s decision on when to come out to Richie; it’s something he knows, but makes him feel relieved all the same upon hearing they understand.

Deciding on something they all like takes a bit, eventually settling on a nature documentary with ridiculous commentary, but the three of them are a jumbled mess of halfhearted jokes in no time. Sometime after sleep starts to call to him, Eddie thinks about Richie and what he said. _ You’re not alone. You can be yourself. People will still love you. _ It echoes in his heart until he dozes off on Mike’s shoulder, wrapped up in the love he has for his friends and they for him.


	7. i'll take "they're both idiots" for 500 please Alex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I thought you had work,” he says, hoping he doesn’t remind him about leaving. Richie is a deer in the headlights, not scared but captivated all the same. His eyes trail down the curves of Eddie’s cheeks again and, for a moment, he stands there speechless. No jokes, no nicknames, no nothing — he just stares. Eddie finds himself wanting to kiss him again; nobody’s ever looked at him like that before. He doesn’t think he’s seen anybody look at anyone like that before. Oh god, he thinks, I’ve got it bad. His heart is racing, his knees are weak, and he has it bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [this part's just for me to know i edited this chapter]

**MARCH**

** _— messages: Baberly (1) —_ **

** _Baberly [12:39 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ i need your help with something. _

** _Eds [12:39 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ ofc what’s wrong? _ _   
_ ** _Eds [12:39 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ i can drive wherever. _ _   
_ ** _Eds [12:39 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ fuckin’ run if i have to. _ _   
_ ** _Eds [12:39 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ are you okay? _

** _Baberly [12:40 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ calm, man, i’m good. _ _   
_ ** _Baberly [12:40 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ i need your help with Richie. _

** _Eds [12:40 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ is he okay? _

** _Baberly [12:41 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ i mean, he’s Richie, but yeah. _

** _Eds [12:42 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ fair enough. _

** _Baberly [12:43 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ he can’t do that scene with me, idk if it’s because he’s  
worried i’ll react that way again or what but he keeps  
fucking it up. _

** _Eds [12:45 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ how am i supposed to help though? _

** _Baberly [12:45 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ he listens to you. _

** _Eds [12:45 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ HA. _

** _Baberly [12:45 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ more than he listens to me at least. _

** _Eds [12:47 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Richie doesn’t listen to anyone. _

** _Baberly [12:48 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ i don’t wanna push him but he’s getting on my nerves.  
it’s like he’s walking on eggshells. the scene SUCKS. _ _   
_ ** _Baberly [12:49 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ when we did it for the callback audition it was amazing.  
he hit me and yanked on me and everything. it worked  
and now he can’t even touch me. _

** _Eds [12:50 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ he has to hit you? _

** _Baberly [12:51 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ the stage-fighting type of hitting _ _   
_ ** _Baberly [12:51 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ but yeah, it’s an attempted-assault thing. _ _   
_ ** _Baberly [12:52 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ do people like that ever politely ask if they can hurt  
you? _

** _Eds [12:54 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ alright you have a point. _

** _Baberly [12:55 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ can you please talk to him? _

** _Eds [12:55 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ what do i even say? _

** _Baberly [12:58 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ “hey Richie, your acting sucks lately, can you please  
treat Beverly like a normal person and not like she can  
break into a million pieces if you do something mean  
in a play?” _ _   
_ ** _Baberly [12:59 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ or maybe run the scene with him yourself. _

** _Eds [1:00 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ he’s afraid of triggering you again, Bev. _

** _Baberly [1:00 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ ik but it’s fucking with everything. _ _   
_ ** _Baberly [1:00 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ i’m not delicate. _

** _Eds [1:02 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ everyone knows that. _

** _Baberly [1:03 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ then PLEASE talk to him. _

** _Eds [1:04 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Fine. _ _   
_ ** _Eds [1:05 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ but you owe me a milkshake. _

** _Baberly [1:08 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ shit, i’ll buy you dinner if he learns how to act again. _

** _Eds [1:09 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ i wouldn’t put too much faith in me. _

** _Baberly [1:12 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ too late, go fix Richie. _

★★★

“I’m not doing this scene with you,” Richie huffs, folding his arms over his chest. His hair is especially unmanageable today, curls flying every which way and refusing to listen when he tries to fix them.  _ Everything _ feels unmanageable to him today; his shirt won’t stay put, his glasses keep slipping down, and Eddie won’t let this go.

“Well, suck it up. Bev said you’re having trouble with it so I’m gonna help.”

“If I can’t play a shitty character with her, what makes you think I can do it now?”

“Faith.”

“Whatever.” Richie flops back against Eddie’s bed and stares up at the lights draped across the ceiling. He can feel his eyes still lingering on him and burning with annoyance. “I don’t want to get her worked up like that again,” he says softly. The bed creaks and he thinks Eddie is sitting by him. He knows he is after feeling a hand on his knee, fingers barely brushing against his skin through the rips in his jeans.

“She’s tougher than you give her credit for,” Eddie says, trying not to think about what could happen if he’d move his hand up higher. He thinks for a moment he could try, but decides against it. His mind shouldn’t wander like that.  _ Sickly boy. _ He pushes it away, thinking of Cara.  _ I’m gay and there’s nothing wrong with that. _

“I know.” Richie makes himself sit up, flipping briefly through the script again before handing it to Eddie. He’s already memorized the scene. He knows what to say and when to do things, it’s just a matter of finding the nerve to.

The director told him to try all sorts of things: hitting, tearing at clothes, pulling hair, and even choking. He hasn’t been able to do any of it. He thinks he can, but then he sees Beverly there — pinned between him and the dresser — and wonders how many times her father did the same, mind flickering back to the episode she had after they did the scene for callbacks. He can never go through with it. The first time he tried, he ended up bolting off the stage and into the men’s bathroom where he spent a good half hour hurling up his lunch. Practice ended early after that.

“Then get handsy, Trashmouth.” Eddie winks at him, standing up and walking to the desk. He leans on it, as if to look out a window that isn’t there, and waits. He feels Richie’s hands on his waist first, turning him around to face him. They’re close — really,  _ really _ close. Before Eddie can say anything, Richie shakes his head and pulls away.

“Fuck this, man. I’m not doing it,” he sighs. Eddie wonders if it’s because of him. “I don’t wanna hurt you.” As if it’s the real reason why. Neither of them believe it. Richie can only think of Beverly. Sweet, fiery Beverly who loves him with all her heart. All he wants in the world is to make her feel happy again. All he wants in the world is to make her father suffer for what he’s done.

“Hey, I’m tough.” Eddie frowns, effectively throwing Richie from his own head.

“Sure, sure.” Richie waves a hand at him, disregarding the argumentative tone in his voice. He starts pacing again, he’s been doing it a lot. All he seems to do is get irritated at little things and make snide comments about them; this isn’t any different. If it’s not the scene, it’s the lights. If it’s not the lights, it’s the music. If it’s not the music, it’s the smell of the air freshener. He’s on edge, Eddie’s not really sure why.

“You can’t hurt me, Rich. I know this is pretend. She knows too,” Eddie says. It makes Richie stop pacing and stare at him. “Just try.” Eddie faces away from him again, feeling his hands on his waist soon after. Richie looks determined, somehow angry, when he makes him face him once more. Eddie glances at the script to make sure he says the line right.

“What do you want?” he asks. He’s still bad at this; no matter how much he helps Richie practice, he stays bad at this. His mind goes blank when the hands on his waist fumble to find the buttons on his shirt.  _ Just pretend, _ he reminds himself. One button at a time he reminds himself, but each nerve in his spine seems to spark.

“What I been missin’ all summer,” Richie mumbles, the anger growing in his words. Eddie pulls away, or tries too, but he can’t escape — pinned between Richie and the desk. Two buttons are undone and he keeps undoing more, reducing Eddie’s brain to mush with each one.

“Then marry me, Mitch!” His heart clings to the rhyme that can so easily be made.

“I don’t think I want to marry you anymore.”

“No?” Eddie’s breathless. They’re so close, nearly nose-to-nose. Richie’s clothes still smell like cigarette smoke from his last trip outside and, strangely, Eddie can’t bring himself to hate it. He tries to seem confused, not sure if it’s working. Richie’s hands drop back down to his sides.

“You’re not clean enough to bring in the house with my mother.” Something flickers in his eyes, violent and terrifying. Eddie hopes the fear he wants to get across shows up. He knows, at least, his eyes go wide if not for any reason but a reminder of his mother.  _ Not clean enough. _ It eats at him.  _ Filthy boy. _ He pushes it down and thinks of Cara again.  _ I’m gay and there’s nothing wrong with that. _

“Go away, then,” Eddie whispers, anticipating something —  _ anything _ — but Richie doesn’t move. A few moments of silence pass and he frowns. “Rich?”

“I’m not doing it.”

“How are you supposed to act out a scene with an attem—”

“I’m not doing it,” Richie spits out, clenching his jaw and still not moving, “I don’t want to scare anyone. I don’t...I don’t want to be like  _ that.” _ He avoids Eddie’s eyes. Both of their hearts beat faster when his fingers curl around the neon fabric of his loose shirt. It dawns on them, not for the first time, the smallest movement could be made and their lips would meet. They shoo it away, knowing better from the last time this happened.

“I have an idea,” Eddie says, “be Blanche for this scene, only for now, and I’ll be Mitch.” Richie shoots him a questioning glance but doesn’t object, switching places with him and facing away until he turns him around. It feels a little strange. Richie’s taller, how is he supposed to pretend Eddie’s a threat? How is he supposed to pretend Eddie can be heinous? His mind thinks back to November and he realizes he  _ can. _ He tries to take the fear from then and use it now.

“What do you want?” he asks, worried eyes travelling across Eddie’s stern face. He feels his fingers falter trying to drag across Richie’s body. He does it anyway, feeling the rise and fall of his chest with each breath.  _ I’m gay and there’s nothing wrong with that. I’m gay and there’s nothing wrong with that. I’m gay and there’s nothing wrong with that. _ But, he can’t do anything about what he’s feeling right now.

“What I been missin’ all summer,” he says. He doesn’t sound convincing, not like a jealous lover who feels like he’s been cheated. He just sounds like himself, maybe a little more awkward of a version if it’s possible.

“Then marry me, Mitch!’ Richie pleads with him. It doesn’t matter who’s saying the words, they still make Eddie feel numb.

“I don’t think I want to marry you anymore.”

“No?”

“You’re not clean enough to bring in the house with my mother.” Eddie’s hands drag down Richie’s chest and stomach — which makes his breath get caught in his throat — and hooks his fingers in the belt loops of his jeans, tugging him closer. Richie’s eyes widen and his breathing gets shallower, as if realizing what could happen...what  _ would _ happen if Eddie had the nerve. For a moment, he can’t think.

“Go away then.” Richie tries to sound intimidating, like he has any power at all. A hiss gets caught in his throat when Eddie grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks on it, pulling his head back to expose his neck.  _ Just pretend. _ “Get out of here quick before I start screaming fire.” Richie’s voice is shriller, twisted into a whine. Eddie pushes him, making his back slam against the edge of the desk, and puts his hand on his thigh. He can feel it twitch at the feeling.

“Get out of here quick before I start screaming fire,” he repeats, more desperate than before. The tone in his voice isn’t fearful, not like it’s supposed to be for this scene. Eddie can’t tell what it actually is, moving closer to Richie and slipping a hand slowly up his shirt. His heart feels like it may burst out of his chest.  _ Just pretend. _

“I’m not gonna yell,” Richie whispers, “I don’t wanna cause a scene.” His eyes fall upon the curves of his freckled cheeks. His breathing hitches in his chest, Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows, and Eddie pulls away.  _ Fuck, _ he thinks,  _ fuck fuck fuck.  _ He needs to take a cold shower.

“Now,” he tilts his head, looking at Richie as he stands, “are you afraid of me?”

“No.”

“Do you think I’m a bad person?”

“No.”

“Do you see what I mean now?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Let’s do it again. Be your character this time. Don’t do what I did, do something else so I don’t see anything coming.” They run the scene again and, this time, there’s nothing held back. Richie is rough with him; he pulls on his clothes, he forces him up on the desk, and he fake-chokes him. No hesitation in it and no fear of being too much. Eddie’s a little ashamed to say he likes it, flushed and trying to hide the tent in his pants once it’s over.

“Thanks, Eddie Spaghetti.” Richie beams at him, grabs his bag, and throws it over his shoulder. “I’ve gotta run — shift at the library — but if you’re still up when I get off, can we keep running it?” He has a hand on the doorknob, it makes Eddie’s heart stumble in his chest. He shouldn’t be upset that Richie's working.

“I’ll be up,” he promises. Just like that, Richie’s gone. He tries not to let it bother him but the room still smells like his cologne and he left yet another hoodie on his bed. It’s a wonder how he has any clothes at all, leaving them in every place he sheds them off. Eddie unbuttons the rest of his shirt, cheeks warm at the memory of Richie’s nimble fingers doing it as if it took no effort, and slips the hoodie over his head once his own shirt comes off. He’s grabbing headphones, tissues, and lotion to pile on his bed. But, It isn’t very long before he hears a knock at the door and forces himself to answer.

“Eds,” Richie says softly, breathing a little too fast. His face falters once his gaze lands on Eddie. Richie’s freckled cheeks are flushed and a thin layer of sweat coats his forehead.  _ Did he run back here? _ His bright orange shirt is twisted and wrinkled, clinging to his shoulders as they rise and fall with his chest. The words in his head go still.  _ Eddie. _ Messy haired, doe eyed, wearing-his-hoodie  _ Eddie. _

“I thought you had work,” he says, hoping he doesn’t remind him about leaving. Richie is a deer in the headlights, not scared but captivated all the same. His eyes trail down the curves of Eddie’s cheeks again and, for a moment, he stands there speechless. No jokes, no nicknames, no nothing — he just stares. Eddie finds himself wanting to kiss him again; nobody’s ever looked at him like that before. He doesn’t think he’s seen anybody look at anyone like that before.  _ Oh god, _ he thinks,  _ I’ve got it bad. _ His heart is racing, his knees are weak, and he has it  _ bad. _

“You’re spending spring break with me and my family,” Richie finally says, posture straightening out and hands fidgeting like they always do. He’s cocky and he’s sure. Eddie feels a smile tugging at the corners of his lips; he raises an eyebrow and folds his arms over his chest, all the weight of his body shifting to one leg.

“I am, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Where are you takin’ me, Tozier?”

“Beach house in Jersey. We can drive down after our last classes tomorrow.”

“I’ll be waiting.” Eddie smiles, too caught up in the idea that Richie’s family  _ absolutely _ insisted on him be invited to notice how much closer Richie is. That is, until he grabs Eddie’s face and plants a kiss right on his cheek. He books it down the hall again after, remembering he has his shift, and Eddie lets the door shut while he holds a hand to the cheek Richie kissed. His entire face feels like it’s on fire, surely bright red. All he can do is keep it there until a ding comes from his pocket.

** _— messages: Baberly (2) —_ **

** _Baberly [4:42 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ how’d the scene go? _ _   
_ ** _Baberly [4:42 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ did he puss out with you too? _

** _Eds [4:42 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ he should be fine with it now. _

** _Baberly [4:43 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ are you fuckin’ serious? _

** _Eds [4:43 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ as a heart attack. _

** _Baberly [4:44 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ i officially owe you dinner. _ _   
_ ** _Baberly [4:44 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ thanks, Eds. _

** _Eds [4:45 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ hey, only he gets to call me that. _

** _Baberly [4:45 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ i thought you hated it. _

** _Eds [4:45 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ maybe i don’t hate it as much as i say. _

** _Baberly [4:46 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ :) _

** _Eds [4:46 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ shut the fuck up. _

** _Baberly [4:47 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ [YouTotallyLikeHim.img] _

** _Eds [4:47 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ [ImFlippingYouOff.img] _

** _Baberly [4:48 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ hey, uh, _ _   
_ ** _Baberly [4:48PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ what’re the tissues and lotion for?  _ _   
_ ** _Baberly [4:48 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ 👀👀👀 _

** _Eds [4:49 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ oh god i’m sorry. _

** _Baberly [4:49 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ things get a lil interesting with Richie? _

** _Eds [4:49 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ no. _

** _Baberly [4:50 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ mmmmm i think you’re lying. _

** _Eds [4:50 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ ugh. _

** _Baberly [4:50 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ i’ll let you be ;) _

** _Eds [4:51 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ .........thanks _

_ _

★★★

The drive down to Wildwood takes about six and a half hours. Eddie and Ren ride with Richie in his car while Maggie and Went take one of theirs — they said something about not being able to stand the kids while they drove and Eddie understands exactly what they mean about fifteen minutes upon merging on the highway; Ren is in the backseat, scrolling through playlists on Spotify, and Richie is bickering with her about the choice in songs, occasionally reaching back to slap at her hands and asking Eddie to do it when he can’t reach.

Eventually, Eddie snatches the AUX cord from Ren and puts on his own playlist, something that makes Richie groan despite having asked the name of it a few days ago. But, naturally, it solves no problems. Ren likes to backseat drive and Richie likes to zone out when it’s time to take an exit, whether on purpose or genuine lack of awareness, no one can tell.

By the time they reach the halfway point on their drive through Connecticut, Eddie demands for Richie to pull over so he can drive instead. Even though it makes it much easier, he’s still exhausted by the time he pulls up to the light green house. Maggie and Went seem to know upon seeing his face, watching him drag his suitcase up the porch steps and into the house.

The living room is about as beach-themed as a room can get — seafoam green walls and white wicker furniture, pastel couch cushions and picture frames with seashells on the edges. The rest of the house isn’t much different, he can see right into the kitchen; all white cabinets and a small island in the middle in place of a dining room table. The upstairs is only a bit less beachy.

His and Richie’s room has peach pink walls that almost close in on him, it’s smaller than his dorm. The bed, draped with a white comforter, is low to the ground. They have to share a bed again, but at least they’re on better terms this time. He unpacks all of his clothes, putting his empty suitcase in the closet and wandering back downstairs when he hears them answering the door for the food they ordered. Everyone’s piled on the couches with the TV on and their bags in the middle of the floor. He starts to ask, only to be grabbed by the hand and pulled onto the loveseat by Richie.

“Unpack later. Jeopardy is on,” he says.

“Yeah, Richie’s gonna lose again.” Ren grins at him, grabbing TV trays for everyone. Maggie goes back and forth between the island and the couches, handing off plates with greasy pizza. Richie spent hours talking about the difference between New Jersey pizza and Boston pizza, still annoyed his favorite place is closed since it isn’t summer.

“Fuck off! Maybe Eddie can give you a run for your money.”

“You guys keep score?” Eddie asks, slapping Richie’s hand away when he tries to steal a piece of pepperoni from him.

“Ren never loses,” Went says. She smiles again and Richie rolls his eyes. “But, Mags and I kick their asses in Wheel of Fortune.” All shit talking goes out the window once the intro starts. Eddie doesn’t pay attention at first; he can’t stop wondering if a lot of families do things like this, maybe it’s a question for his next appointment with Cara. He’s a little annoyed he couldn’t schedule one for this month, but won’t complain if it means he’s really spending time with Richie and his family for all of the break. They make him feel normal.

For a while, Richie and Ren seem like they’ll be tied. Between Details on the Best Picture Oscar Winner and Word Puzzles, they’re evenly matched. It doesn’t last long, though. The instant the American Literature category is revealed, Richie is ecstatic.

“FUCK YEAH!” he shouts, raising a fist in the air and gesturing to himself. Ren flips him off. “Minoring in literature, bitch. Read it and weep, you’re going down.” Then, he’s relaxed; leaning against the corner of the couch with his arm draped over the side, head tilted slightly with his curls dangling down, and freckled cheeks illuminated by the TV’s flickering light.  _ He’s so cute, _ Eddie thinks. He doesn’t push it away.

“Roots.” Richie says. Then,

“Roaring.” Then,

“The Tell-Tale Heart.” The last two clues and answers buzz past Eddie’s ears and Ren can’t open her mouth fast enough to answer any of them. Richie  _ murders _ the entire category. He grabs Eddie by the shoulders and shakes him while screaming.

“SUCK MY DICK, I WON!” His parents roll their eyes and Eddie shakes his head.

“Wow, you finally found something your degree is useful for,” Ren teases. Richie puts his hand over his heart and winces.

“You cut deep, Ren. You cut real deep.” And then the second round’s categories have her in the lead again. Eddie tries to answer what he can, but he’s never fast enough. He’s left silent, pretending to ignore the way Richie’s fingers wrap around the fabric of his shirt and pull him to lean on him. Nobody would believe him if he said it, but Richie is much more needy than he is. But, he doesn’t mind; he lays in the space between Richie’s legs and rests the back of his head against his chest.

After Ren inevitably wins and Wheel of Fortune starts, Eddie notices how quiet it’s gotten. Only Maggie and Went solve puzzles, focused on the screen while Ren gives them a look he doesn’t understand; they look over at Eddie and softly smile before returning their attention to the show. That’s what makes him realize Richie’s arms are wrapped around his torso and his lips are pressed against the top of his head. He isn’t looking at the TV, he’s looking at  _ him. _

Eddie is lost in his own head for a while until he feels Richie grab his arm and tug him toward the steps, not thinking twice before following him. They don’t talk, crawling under the covers and laying in the darkness. He thinks he can feel Richie’s hand brush against his own.

“Hey, so, do you remember the whole thing with Bev after callbacks?” Richie asks quietly. Eddie scarcely nods. How could he forget? “I asked if you could run out to get medicine and you had it already.”

“Oh,” Eddie mumbles, “I guess it’s time to talk about this.”

“Do you keep all that stuff because of your mom? Are you still scared of getting sick?” His voice is softer, his fingers brush against Eddie’s hand again but he doesn’t take it. Eddie’s breath is shaky, it doesn’t go unnoticed. “We don’t have to talk about it if it—”

“It’s because of her,” he interrupts, “it’s better now, believe it or not. She used to make me carry around a fanny pack full of that shit. I guess I still feel like I have to carry stuff. Just in case, you know?”

“Just in case,” Richie repeats, quieter than before. He squeezes Eddie’s hand. “You know you aren’t sick, right?”

“I know,” Eddie says.  _ Tell him. _ It buzzes in the air, pulsing and loud. He rolls over to go to sleep, taking his hand from Richie’s and cursing at himself once he does.

★★★

“I told you the water was too cold, fuckhead.” Eddie sheds his jacket and shoves it toward Richie, still shivering and soaking wet. “It’s like fifty degrees, why would you go swimming? I bet the water was even colder. Your lips are blue, Richie!” He keeps rambling on about hypothermia and rip tides. Richie slips the hoodie over his head and wraps his arms around himself, trying desperately to keep any heat in. The water  _ was _ freezing; swimming felt like thousands of knives stabbing into his skin with every movement he made, but maybe he wants to be reckless and he sure as hell doesn’t want to tell Eddie he’s right.

“I’m fuh-fine,” he tries, eyes going wide at the sound of his voice so affected by the cold. Okay, so, maybe it was a stupid idea. “Hey, I suh-sound like Buh-Bill.” Richie smiles and Eddie hits him in the arm —  _ hard _ — but he doesn’t feel it. He glares at Eddie and keeps walking toward the house with him.

“Dumbfuck, you could die if you stay in there too long!”

“We can only huh-hope,” he mumbles. Eddie hits him again. He still doesn’t feel it, not with the numbness in his limbs. They cross the street once they reach the crosswalk and keep heading to the house, a green blob of color just a few blocks away.

“That’s not funny,” Eddie huffs, folding his arms over his chest. They walk the rest of the way in silence, the only sound becomes sneakers on pavement and knocking on the front door. Maggie swings it open and her smile disappears when her eyes land on Richie. Shivering, miserable Richie with a too-small hoodie tight around his shoulders and dark circles under his eyes. He hasn’t been sleeping well for the past few days. Eddie doesn’t need to be a light sleeper to hear the pacing and feel the the mattress shift.

“Oh god, what happened now?” She doesn’t sound as concerned as Eddie is, only exasperated like she’s used to it.  _ Hell, _ he thinks,  _ she raised him so she must expect it by now. _ The woman deserves a goddamn medal. He gestures to Richie, knees-clattering like spoons and lips still blue.

“This jackass thought it’d be a good idea to go swimming.”

_ “Richard.” _ Maggie frowns, something in her tone is worrying. Eddie can’t figure out what. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard someone call Richie by his actual name before.

“For thirty minutes.”

“It’s too cold for that.”

“THANK YOU!” Eddie throws his hands down and trudges up the steps, throwing the door to their bedroom open. He changes into comfier clothes, sweatpants with one of Richie’s t-shirts, and ignores the lecturing he can hear from downstairs. Something about controlling impulses.  _ Maybe he’ll listen to one of them, _ he thinks. He’s sure he won’t, Richie hardly thinks before he does things so what would stop him next time? Eddie’d been standing at the edge of the waves, screaming for him to come back, and Richie still didn’t bother to listen. He just looked back, smiled, and plunged beneath the surface.

Eddie gathers up the dirty clothes strung out on the floor, a mixture of both of theirs, and trots downstairs to put them in the washer. His pace slows, almost stumbling, when he passes the bathroom door and hears low, sultry singing from the other side.  _ Richie. _ Impulsive, genuine, carefree  _ Richie. _ It brings a smile to his face as he walks up to the washing machine, throwing the clothes in with little to no regard and grabbing a clean towel from the shelf above.

Eddie puts it in the dryer, only for a bit, and creeps toward the bathroom door while holding it to his chest; it’s warm and smells like lavender. He’s glad to find the door isn’t locked, slipping in to place the towel on the counter and slipping out just as fast. Ren gives him a look and he walks back up the stairs, holding a finger to his lips as if Richie can’t know he still cares — even when he’s annoyed.  _ I can be pissed off at you and still care, Eds. _ He wonders if he’s still angry about November.

Blankets are next. Eddie grabs a stack of them from the hall closet and arranges them from thinnest to thickest on their bed. He thinks there may be about eight of them, but gets interrupted before he can count. He knows from the sound of the footsteps. It’s Richie. He could recognize the sound in death. Lazy, unsure steps that almost seem to follow a rhythm. He doesn’t glance behind him, he already knows.

“I know it was you,” Richie says in a sing-songy voice. Eddie turns to glance at him, the towel wrapped around his shoulders while another one stays tied around his waist — it hangs low on his hips. Is this the first time he’s seen him shirtless? A trail of thick, dark hair leads down his stomach and disappears beneath the edge of the towel.

Tattoos are scattered about his chest, most of them are small. Eddie tries to count them.  _ Sickly boy. _ A solar system. A fish bowl. A Cheez-It. The word  _ fuck _ in all caps. He tries not to look.  _ Filthy boy. _ A pine tree air freshener. A pot leaf. A game of tic-tac-toe. Tally marks that add up to sixty-nine. He tries not to think about what’s underneath the towel.  _ Delicate boy. _ He shakes his head, as if trying to shake the thoughts of his mother away, and looks back to the blankets.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says under his breath. He hears the door shut and drawers start to open. “Get dressed somewhere else.”

“Nope.” He keeps rifling through to find clothes. “This is my room too.” The drawers shut and Eddie has to force himself not to look back. He pictures freckled skin littered with even more tattoos, curves of a lanky frame, and water slithering down the outline of a spine.  _ Weak boy. _ He turns to look, only to find Richie fully clothed and pulling another hoodie over his head. He’s almost relieved. He’s almost disappointed.

“Are you still cold?” Eddie asks. Richie faces him, a small smile on his no-longer-blue lips, and sits down on the edge of the low bed. He still has the warm towel wrapped around his shoulders, clutching it tight.

“Eds,” he says, watching his eyes for any flicker of emotion as he sits down too, “you’re like an angel.” Their thighs are touching, barely brushing against each other, and the world seems so soft. The pale orange of the sunset floods the room and here, Eddie thinks, would be the first time they’d kiss if not for November. He can see it in his head — unsteady heart beats, hesitant movements, and gentle touches. He thinks Richie might kiss him again; the same feeling humming in the air, that same chemistry from the scene only now without sadness. He thinks he might kiss Richie himself, until he feels a hand on his wrist and recoils at the feeling.

“Jesus, Richie. Your hands are freezing!” Eddie frowns and the moment is gone. He doesn’t want it to be. Richie merely grins, shoving his cold hands on Eddie’s neck and not moving away when he squeals. He manages to push him away and crawl under the covers. “It’s like being felt up by a snowman,” he grumbles, yanking the blankets over his shoulder. Richie gets up to shut the lights off and lays with him.

“I’m cuter than a snowman.”

“Your hands are still freezing.”

“Yeah, I know. They won’t warm up.” Richie sighs, holding his hands to his chest. It’s the only thing between the two of them — his hands. They’re laying close, almost nose-to-nose. Eddie’s grabbing Richie’s hands before he can think, holding them between his and bringing them up to their faces. He tries to warm them the way he would warm his own if he forgot to wear gloves in the cold; his eyes are closed, but he knows Richie’s staring at him. His hot breath caresses their skin.

“Babe,” Richie whispers, worried he might cross a line. Is it okay to call him that right now? This feels different than all the other times. They weren’t lying in bed all the other times. They weren’t so close all the other times. They weren’t like  _ this _ all the other times. Eddie doesn’t seem to mind.

“Quiet, Trashmouth,” he says softly, pressing his lips against a dip between Richie’s knuckles and not daring to move them. They stay that way for a while, until the cold is replaced by warmth again and Eddie realizes what he’d been called. He’s pretty sure his heart will explode, seeing the way Richie’s honeyed eyes marvel over him when he finally opens his own. He expects him to yank his hands away, to snap at him for being so strange or get distant upon remembering November, but he doesn’t.

“Better?” Eddie tries to smile, he isn’t sure if it works. Richie just nods, wanting to say so much but unable to find the words when Eddie rolls over and faces away from him. “Don’t wake me up unless you’re dying,” he says, trying to steady his breathing. It doesn’t take long before he’s asleep, dreaming about pale orange sunsets and lavender scented towels.

It’s dark out when they wake up. Fluorescent street lights shine through the cheap blinds and give the small room a sort of blue glow. Eddie can hear cars pass by if he pays attention, almost lost in thought and wondering what those drivers’ stories are until he hears something — a low, sleepy whine from Richie’s throat like he’s been woken up and isn’t happy about it. He remembers they fell asleep together. Except, now, he’s holding him; Richie’s arm thrown over his chest and his body pressed against his. It makes Eddie’s cheeks heat up, blood rushing to pool beneath the skin and making his face turn pink. Richie’s  _ spooning _ him. He thinks his heart speeds up, he tries not to let it.

“Eddie,” Richie says softly, moving his hand to drag his fingers through the sea-salted waves of Eddie’s hair. Every so often, they’ll graze his cheek and feel cool against his sand-beaten, sunkissed skin. They could live and breathe this moment. There’s no impending joke or snarky comment, there’s no teeming anxiety or worried thoughts. It’s just them.

“Hm,” Eddie hums, his heart beats faster. The blankets feel weightless on him and everywhere Richie’s touching is lighting up like a Christmas tree. He feels so  _ safe. _

“I’m gonna miss you.” He scoots closer, squeezing him a bit tighter. “You know, over the summer.” Richie sighs, his hot breath warming the back of Eddie’s neck. It makes a shiver go down his spine. This is a snippet of unfiltered vulnerability he doesn’t often get from him. “I don’t want you to go back to that house. I don’t want you to be so far away.”  _ Tell him, _ his heart screams.  _ Tell him. Tell him. Tell him. _

“I don’t want to either,” he says. It’s all he can say and Richie buries his face into the crook of Eddie’s neck.  _ Tell him. _ He swears he can feel his lips brush against his skin.  _ Tell him. _

“We should dorm together next semester.”

“Okay.” He tries so desperately to fight the exhaustion in his bones.  _ Tell him. _ Richie props himself up on one arm and stares at him, almost shocked.

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah, dipshit. What’d you think I’d say no?”

“Sorta,” Richie sinks back down into the mattress and pulls the blankets back over their shoulders, "I’m a handful.”

“Yeah, you are.” Eddie smiles, rolling over on his other side to face him.  _ Tell him. _ The blue glow makes his hair look like a midnight sky.  _ Tell him. _ They both notice how close they are, faces barely inches apart and limbs tangled beneath the sheets.  _ Tell him. _ The smile fades, disappearing into a mesmerized gaze; he can’t think straight.  _ Tell him. _ He can’t think in general, save for the constant loop of Richie’s name.  _ Tell him. _ It replaces everything else. It’s  **Richie Richie Richie** over and over again in his heart.

“Eddie.” His voice is low and cautious. There’s a warning somewhere in there, almost for himself. The air is thick with anticipation. “I really—”

“BOYS!” Maggie interrupts, calling from downstairs. They goddamn near piss themselves, jumping apart and eyes flying toward the door. They feel ridiculous for reacting so strongly; it’s not like they were doing anything. “WE ORDERED FOOD!” They stand up once their hearts slow, eyes lingering on the messy bed for a moment before they walk out the door and drag themselves down the stairs. The word  _ really _ keeps echoing in their heads at the loss of what was supposed to come next.

★★★

Gentle moonlight rains down across the beach and nobody else is there, save for the three of them. Midnight walks have become rather common, unable to soothe the restlessness underneath Richie’s skin. If he can’t sleep, they might as well wear him out. It feels like the water crashes against the sand and recedes in rhythm with Eddie’s heartbeat. He thinks it might be because of Richie, who’s diving under the waves as they come and shouting loud enough to be heard on the shore. This time he promised to come back if he gets too cold. Eddie and Ren sit in the sand, refusing to join him because it’s freezing and bundled in blankets. She seems happy, if not a little nervous.

“How’d you two meet? I never asked before.” Her long, dark hair is tied back to stay out of her face. It makes him realize how similar they look, especially to their mom.

“Weird story,” he says. It makes her give him a look and he remembers she’s Richie’s sister, she knows exactly how weird he is. “He was rehearsing for a play and I had a panic attack, ran into the room to get some quiet but he was there. He calmed me down and we went out for coffee after.” Ren just stares at him.

“He was  _ what?” _

“He never told you about it? He got the lead. He’s got one of the leads in Streetcar this semester too.”

“Oh, I’m gonna strangle him.” Ren crosses her arms and glares out at the water until Richie’s head pops up from beneath the waves. She flips him off, not that he can see. “Tell me when it is so I can show up.”

“Sometime in May.”

“Oh, thanks, so specific.” She rolls her eyes and, for a moment, Eddie forgets they don’t know each other very well. He feels like he could’ve known her for years. He feels like that with everyone in the Tozier family. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him so happy.” But, then her face falls. Something makes her hesitate. “Do you think he’s as happy as he looks? I don’t see him a lot.” There’s fear somewhere in there, he can’t tell why.

“He seems okay with things,” Eddie says, watching Richie’s head disappear in the waves again, “I don’t know if he really has things as figured out as he pretends. Sometimes it worries me. Like, I didn’t even know he was thinking about moving to New York after college ‘till he brought it up at dinner.” The thought makes him scared, then he feels selfish. If Richie wants to chase his dreams, who is he to stop him just because he’ll miss him? Ren nods, seeming to understand. Of course, she understands.

“I think he doesn’t wanna grow up. Maybe he feels like he missed out on things because of who he is and wants to hold onto it but—”

“What do you mean?” He looks at her, how her dark eyes flicker and light up with the moon. She looks confused he asked.

“Eddie, his childhood was horrible.”

“He doesn’t seem to remember it that way.” His eyes find Richie again, a little closer to the shore. Maybe he’s coming back. He hopes he is, it’s too cold to stay out so long. He didn’t want him to swim at all.

“Really?” Ren still looks confused.

“I mean, he’s talked about the incident with the Bowers kid and having to move, but that’s it. He seems like he just likes to be a kid,” he says, not noticing the way Ren freezes up. She watches her brother get closer to the shore and decides not to bother.

“He can tell you about it one day then. It’s none of my business.” Her voice is ice. Before Eddie can say anything else, Richie’s there; freezing from the water and wrapping himself up in the towels they brought for when this would inevitably happen. He rambles about how they missed out, even if it was frigid, and plops down next to Eddie. He lays his head in his lap and smiles when he feels his hair getting run through. Eddie always plays with his hair.

“I should live here,” Richie says, wiggling to get more comfortable in the sand. He goes on about how perfect it’d be — swimming every morning, being close to Atlantic City to do stand-up at casinos, and getting to see Eddie in shorts whenever he’d visit. He says the last bit to see him roll his eyes, but they both know there’s some truth in it; no matter how things end up, they’ll always try to be in each other’s lives.

Sleep washes over Richie soon after he plays music from a playlist called  _ Ocean Acoustics. _ Eddie still runs his fingers through the damp curls of his hair, trying to hide the grin on his face when Richie lays his hand on his leg. He looks tired, even while asleep. All Eddie can do is look at him, how the moonlight touches his cheeks and shines off his hair. His heart feels like it’s glowing and he unconsciously grazes his fingers across Richie’s cheekbone, it makes him hum with a smile.

“You like him,” Ren says. It is not a question. It knocks the wind out of Eddie for a moment, who pokes Richie’s cheek to make sure he’s sleeping.

“Yeah, I do,” he admits, eyes still not leaving him.

“Why don’t you do something about it?”

“Not ready to come out yet,” he says. He thinks Ren nods in his peripheral vision. “Only four people know and one of them’s my therapist. Well, five know now. And I wanna tell him, but I’m just...I’m scared.” He says nothing else and doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to explain who his mother is or what she did, he doesn’t want to explain how Richie makes his heart race in a way that feels  _ right, _ he doesn’t want to explain he can’t even say the words out loud. He doesn’t have to.

“I get it. Your secret is safe with me,” she says. She offers him her pinky when he finally tears his gaze away from Richie, he takes it. “Just take care of him, okay?” He looks at him again when their hands fall back at their sides; he’s sound asleep and peaceful, still for the first time in his life.

“I always will.” He’s sure of it. He fucks up sometimes, but he’ll always try. He’ll always care. The words and the meaning behind them make Ren laugh, shaking her head and looking back over at Eddie.

“Man, you’ve got it bad.” Her eyes find Richie’s hand resting on his leg and a smile creeps up on her. “You’re both lovestruck idiots.”

★★★

“Get  _ fucked, _ you tiny asshole!” Richie hisses at him, hardly above the sound of mashing buttons and joysticks getting clacked in different directions. They’re surrounded by Five Guys wrappers, half-full cans of soda, and a lot of Hostess snacks — HoHos, Raspberry Zingers, Sno Balls, and Twinkies. The most unhealthy dinner they could find for themselves after a particularly horrid call from Eddie’s mother. Richie didn’t hear any of it, but he can’t forget the look on Eddie’s face once he came back inside; it was enough for them to gather up about forty five bucks, get into Richie’s car, and buy the most artery-clogging foods they could find just to say  _ fuck you _ to Ms. Sonia Kaspbrak.

“I’m ignoring the jab at my height only until I destroy you,” Eddie says, eyes still fixated on the screen. He’s a god in this game, no one can beat him in MarioKart and all who’ve tried have failed. He hasn’t fallen out of first place for a single race of their tournament and Richie’s managed to uphold a steady fourth place the entire time. Eddie doesn’t dare look over at him because he knows, in an instant, his concentration will disappear upon the sight of him. He can only imagine — curls falling into his eyes, furrowed eyebrows, and mouthing curse words at every hindrance. His mind wanders to what Cara said the last time they spoke.

“Eat red shell, bitch,” Richie says. His voice turns into a groan when his red shell hits the green one Eddie’s kept behind his motorcycle for this very moment.  _ “YOU WHORE!” _ he shrieks, continuing to mash buttons and failing at trying to drift.

“When’d you lose your virginity?” Eddie asks. Richie chokes on his own breath and falls three places behind.

“You choose  _ now _ of all times to ask me that? We’ve literally never even gotten close to talking about it before. All I do is joke about how huge my dick is.”

“Beep beep, Richie.” Eddie almost glares at him, but shrugs and goes back to the screen. “I’ve never...you know? I’ve never done it. I guess I wanna know what it’s like for other people.” He keeps avoiding Richie’s eyes and hopes he isn’t blushing as much as he thinks he is.

“Okay,” he says, “I was fifteen. I was figuring out my sexuality and hooked up with one of the seniors who was out of the closet. Nothing else really came of it.” Richie doesn’t say, but Eddie knows he’s still a little hurt by it. He tries not to linger on the idea of younger, insecure Richie getting his heart broken by a guy who didn’t care for him as much as he did. He tries not to picture nights of tears and wishes to be normal. It hits a little too close to home and Eddie has to shake the thoughts away to remind himself Richie’s proud. He still asks.

“You didn’t care?” His eyes won’t leave the screen, only two laps left. He can hear Richie still muttering curses under his breath. “Like, you were young. Didn’t you want something more?”

“I did at first. But, now, I try not to look at sex as an emotional thing,” Richie says, glancing over to see the way Eddie’s face scrunches up and stumbling to add on, “it sounds bad but I just try not to get caught up in things like that. I had a lot more to think about and couldn’t bother. You should ask Stan or Mike about romantic shit.” Eddie could go the rest of his life without hearing how their sex life is; he nearly shivers at the thought of finding out the details beyond what he’s accidentally overheard through their thin dorm walls (noise-cancelling headphones have become his best friend). An annoyed hum slips past his lips when someone hits him with a blue shell.

“Was it good? With him, I mean.” He’s heard, more than once, first times suck. The only one to ever challenge that is Bill, who went on and on about it after getting drunk around Thanksgiving. Those are images that will never leave his brain.  _ Focus on the fucking game, _ he tells himself.

“Not at first. It got better once we did it a few more times.” Richie gets quiet. Maybe he shouldn’t have brought this topic up. Maybe there’s a reason they avoid it. Eddie keeps playing and avoiding his eyes. Avoiding works, he’s still in first.

“How do you even know what you like?” he asks. Richie just shrugs, coming close to second place. He tries to throw a green shell at Eddie, but misses — it makes him curse again. He’s not used to losing this game.

“I mean, it’s different for everyone. I like shit some people find revolting and vice versa. I’ve experimented a lot, I guess.” For a moment, small and fleeting and full of shouting, Richie passes him; he quickly gets passed by upon driving straight off the side of a bridge during his celebration and groans. Eddie leans closer, as if to concentrate better, so it can’t happen again. He’ll never live this down if Richie wins now.

“You’re lucky. I don’t know how you can do it.”

“Why don’t you ever try?” Richie asks, seeing the bright red blush spread across Eddie’s face and frowning. Maybe he’s crossed a line. “Nevermind, you don’t have to answer that.”

“No, it’s okay,” Eddie says softly. He’s about to win. “I don’t think I can. I wouldn’t even know what to do and I’m not confident enough to try. Besides, I think I’d want it to be with someone I care about anyway.”  _ With you, _ Eddie thinks. Something burns in the back of his neck.  _ Sickly boy. Filthy boy. Delic— _

“Well, if you ever do find someone, I’m here for any advice you might need,” Richie says. He tries one last time to screw Eddie out of first place and fails with an over dramatic sigh.

“Thanks,” he says. Richie drops the controller on the couch upon watching them pass the finish line with a frown — at least he got second this time. “It’s not my fault you suck.” He grins, picking the last map. He knows he’s the worst at Rainbow Road.

“I do more than that, babe.” Richie winks at him, picking up the controller again and not realizing how pink Eddie’s cheeks turn. Ever since getting away with it over break, it’s all Richie seems to call him (as if he’s ever going to complain about it too). The final race is fairly similar to the previous ones, until the last lap where Richie decides Eddie’s winning streak must come to an end. He does what he does best and distracts him. He throws his legs over his lap, covers his eyes, messes up his hair, and more. It works. Eddie can’t focus and falls into eighth place. But, because he wasn’t paying attention either, Richie ends up last; he still gets shoved after crossing the finish line.

“You didn’t even bother to win!” Eddie gives him a look, an exasperated look, but can’t hide the smile shining through. Finally taking him in, Eddie knows he was right to not bother before. If he’d looked over at him, he would’ve lost every round. He tries not to stare, watching the way Richie’s lips touch the can of soda as he drinks from it, but it doesn’t work.

“Yeah, but at least you lost,” he says. He gets shoved again, a little harder than before. “Knock it off, Spaghetti Head.” Eddie smugly smiles and shoves him once more, promptly folding his arms over his chest and blocking the logo from Richie’s hoodie; neither of them are sure when he got his hands on this one, nearly all of Richie’s hoodies are missing from his closet at this point.

Eddie has them all, he hardly wears his own clothes anymore. He lives in Richie’s hoodies until they don’t smell like sandalwood and amber anymore. Then, he slips them back into his backpack or closet and finds another one. The cycle repeats over and over and over. He wonders if Richie’s noticed yet. If he has, he hasn’t said anything; but, Eddie’s realized, after giving one back, Richie wears the hoodie until the next one shows up. He knows he shouldn’t hope as much as he is, but Eddie secretly thinks it’s because Richie wears it until it doesn’t smell like him anymore — blue raspberry bubblegum and hand sanitizer is what he’s been recognizing it as.

“What are you gonna do about it, Trashmouth?” There’s no time for Eddie to react, Richie’s lunging forward and mercilessly tickling his sides. “No, no, no!” he squeals, squirming under him and trying to get away. But, Richie’s stronger than he is; one hand stays on Eddie’s chest, keeping him flat against the couch, and the other stays preoccupied with his sides. The room blooms with the sound of Eddie’s laughter and strung-out insults. His cheeks are red and there are tears in his eyes. The laughter only stops, replaced with heavy breathing, when Richie pauses. He leers over him with a wicked smile, Ren’s voice echoes in Eddie’s head.  _ You’re both lovestruck idiots. _ He hopes it’s true.

“Tell me I’m the best at MarioKart and I might stop.” The smile disappears when he feels his back hit the couch. Eddie’s on top of him, legs on either side of his hips and hands pinning his above his head. How did he  _ do _ that? Richie swears his face is bright pink when Eddie leans in close.

_ “I’m _ the best at MarioKart, Rich,” Eddie says. Then, it dawns on him, they’re close enough to kiss. One small move and their lips could meet.  _ Nicotine and mojito chapstick. _ He wonders how it’d taste; he’s never had a mojito before, he’s never smoked a cigarette before. His eyes travel along Richie’s features, his cheeks painted pink and teeth crooked while he smiles. Eddie scrambles to get off of him.  _ Not another freshman year, _ he tells himself.  _ No more of those. _

“Uh…” Richie sits up, running a hand through his unruly hair. “Rematch?” He glances at the TV screen and the controllers are back in their hands again. This tournament is no different, Eddie wins and Richie gets annoyed; he doesn’t distract him this time.


	8. it's about time shit hit the fan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I won’t go anywhere. I’ll stay as long as you want,” he promises him. Still holding tight, he can feel him start to shake.
> 
> “Forever,” Richie whispers. Eddie’s almost unsure if he hears it right. “Stay forever.”
> 
> “Okay,” he says, pressing his lips to the top of his head. He doesn’t think about what it could mean or why it’s being asked of him, he doesn’t care right now. He only knows one thing; he would do any goddamn thing Richie needs him to, even if it means defying the universe itself. He thinks, for an unexpected and terrifying second, he would die for him if it ever came to it. He knows in another one he would, it’s scary and it’s unexpected but he feels it in his soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all this is gon be rough............i'm so sorry, babies (not really but ya know)  
[this part's just for me to know i edited this chapter]

**APRIL**

Richie isn’t himself anymore; skipping classes, shitty rehearsal performances, and self-deprecating jokes. Everyone has noticed, but Eddie’s the only one who isn’t attributing it to mid-term related stress; Richie doesn’t stress over exams, he lives with flashcards in his hands and caffeine from energy drinks pumping in his blood, but he doesn’t stress over them.

Maybe nobody else knows, maybe because he’s a little embarrassed to talk about it, but Richie’s GPA is the highest out of all the Losers. He mentioned it to Eddie once offhandedly to emphasize a point he was trying to make about not being as big of a moron as everyone thinks; it took a few seconds to react to anything else. Richie’s one of the last people he would’ve expected to have a three-point-nine-seven, beating out Mike  _ and  _ Stan, so he made him prove it.

That’s how Eddie knows something is off; Richie hasn’t shown up to a single class all week and hardly leaves his bed. Bill says he’s gotten him to eat a few times, but those are the only times he’s absolutely sure he’s eaten at all. Beverly adds to his worry, texts about rehearsals hindered by Richie’s inability to keep from spacing out or the way he can’t seem to portray any emotion. She’s been dragging him to practice, but he doesn’t seem to care. The more he notices and the more he hears, the angrier Eddie gets when people write it off as stress.

So, he ends up here — standing in the middle of Richie’s dorm to go over a scene particularly annoying for him and waiting for the right moment to ask what’s wrong. His curls hang like they’re weighed down by the world, hardly as wild as usual, and his eyes don’t have dark circles anymore; it’s like he’s been catching up on all the sleep he’s missed for the past few months.

“You talked to your mother about me?” Eddie can’t remember the lines without the script, even after repeating them so many times. Richie can’t get past the first few without messing up, frustration twitches in his fingers.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I told my mother how nice you were, and I liked you,” Richie says. Sometimes, Eddie lets himself pretend these words aren’t for the show, like he’s really the topic of conversation at Tozier dinners and the whole family knows about it. Other times, he makes himself push the images away because he doesn’t want to get his hopes up.

“Were you sincere about that?” He wants, more than anything, to make Richie pour his heart out. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t make himself stop inspecting every detail of him to find any hint of what could be wrong. Low hanging sweatpants, unbuttoned Hawaiian shirts, and new tattoos don’t tell him much; he’s Richie, just different somehow. It eats him alive.

“You know I was.” Richie’s voice is softer, his shoulders rise and fall so delicately. Are there even more freckles splattered across his cheeks? Is there even more dirt beneath his fingernails? Can he even make jokes anymore?

“Why did your mother want to know my age?” It’s kind of horrible, but Eddie’s theories range from Bodysnatchers to split personalities.

“Mother is sick.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. Badly?”

“She won’t live long. Maybe just— _ fuck,” _ Richie hisses, kicking the bedpost and pushing past him to sit on the couch. He grabs the remote for the TV and fumbles to click the buttons, no more rehearsing. “This is so fucking stupid. This is fucking bullshit. Why should I even do this fucking crap?” He puts on Forensic Files and settles into the electric blue cushions. He hardly looks from the screen when he feels Eddie sit next to him, he doesn’t even acknowledge it when he feels his hand on his knee.

“Rich,” he sighs, “please talk to me.”

“I  _ am _ talking. I think the show is bullshit.”

“You loved it a week ago.”

“And now I think it’s bullshit.”

“Richie,” he warns, finally getting him to look at him. He knows, deep down, he shouldn’t push it, because Richie talks about things when he feels like it. But, Eddie can’t shake the feeling this is different. “I know you don’t like opening up but—”

“That’s not true,” he interrupts, eyebrows furrowing and lips curling into a frown.

“It  _ is _ true and you know it, Rich. You think it’s easier to bottle things up and avoid them but it just fucks you up more when it finally boils over. Just let me help. I want to.” Eddie tries not to look as hurt as he is when Richie pushes his hand away. He stands up and starts looking through the drawers of his desk.

“Don’t fucking analyze me,” he snaps. It’s now Eddie can see the tears welling up in his eyes, the light reflecting off his glasses almost hides it.  _ Almost. _ “I need a cigarette.” He snatches the pack from his drawer and shoves a green lighter in his pocket, trudging over to the door until he feels Eddie grab his wrist. Richie breaks. He doesn’t mean to — he doesn’t want to — but he does. Tears roll down his cheeks and he hates himself for it.

“I’m sorry,” he sobs, crumpling onto the couch and letting him hold him. He melts into his arms. “I’m sorry,” he says again, repeating it until his words are muffled against Eddie’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to apologize. You didn’t do anything,” Eddie says softly, running his fingers through his greasy hair. He doesn’t mind, just listens to the broken pieces Richie manages to pull from his mind.  _ It’s so much _ and  _ I’m not sure if I’m enough _ and  _ I don’t know how to do this. _ All he can do is reassure him he’s there, they’ll work through it together, but his head screams at him. He knows red flags when he sees them.

“Please don’t leave,” Richie says. His fingertips dig into the muscles of Eddie’s back, pressing harsh in a way that almost feels good. “Stay for the night. I don’t want you to go.” The broken pieces keep clinking like glass, they don’t stop and the pounding in Richie’s head makes him think continuing to pull them might not be a good thing. He can’t stop, overwhelmed by the warmth of Eddie’s skin against his and the smells of blue raspberry bubblegum and hand sanitizer. It’s all him. He doesn’t want it to end.

“I won’t go anywhere. I’ll stay as long as you want,” he promises him. Still holding tight, he can feel him start to shake.

“Forever,” Richie whispers. Eddie’s almost unsure if he hears it right. “Stay forever.”

“Okay,” he says, pressing his lips to the top of his head. He doesn’t think about what it could mean or why it’s being asked of him, he doesn’t care right now. He only knows one thing; he would do any goddamn thing Richie needs him to, even if it means defying the universe itself. He thinks, for an unexpected and terrifying second, he would die for him if it ever came to it. He knows in another one he would, it’s scary and it’s unexpected but he feels it in his soul.

They don’t say anything else. In time, Richie runs out of tears to cry and any emotion he could feel is shown up by a headache that makes him have to mute the TV. Eddie pushes the backrest of the futon down until it lies flat, turning the whole thing into a bed of sorts, and puts clean sheets on it while he makes Richie take a hot shower. He piles on pillows and blankets they can drown themselves in, all of them smell like Richie; not the typical, not sandalwood and amber or the newer stale air and funk — it’s just him.

Richie comes shuffling back into the room after a bit, wearing a new pair of sweatpants and not bothering to find a t-shirt. He doesn’t object to the Tylenol Eddie hands him, he doesn’t object to multiple cups of water he has him drink either. The only communication he offers at all is a small, shy smile when he shuts off the lights and lies down next to him. They’re a mess of twisted sheets, warm skin, and short breaths. Weariness finds them fast.

“Thanks for staying,” Richie hums. His arm is lazily draped over Eddie’s side and fingers curling around the loose fabric of his shirt.

“I’ll always stay.”

“I know, but thanks.” Then, sleep has them both. They make it through the night and it’s enough for now.

★★★

Eddie knows something is wrong the instant Richie’s caller ID pops up on his screen. He shuts the textbook that’s been in his lap for hours, full of highlighted phrases unmemorized, and stares at the contact picture; Richie, passed out, with his face buried in Eddie’s neck. Beverly took the picture a few weeks ago. He picks up the phone and his heart drops when he hears the sound. He’s crying.

“Eds,” he mumbles, sniffling and sighing. His words are slurred; he’s drunk too. 

“Richie,” he says, uneasy. There’s a lump in his throat. He fumbles to put his sneakers on, losing balance more than a few times. Something’s wrong.

“Do you think I’ll be happy when I’m older?” He sounds broken and scared, voice so soft it can barely be heard. It’s a plea and a confession all at once; Eddie feels like he should have seen this coming. He grabs his keys. Something’s really wrong.

“Of course, I do.” He runs out the door and down the hall, trying to make it down the stairs fast enough. There’s no time to wait for an elevator. He’s outside once he realizes Richie hasn’t spoken for too long. “Where are you?”

“I didn’t think you’d pick up.”

_ “Richie,” _ he warns. Fear builds up in his chest and he feels sick. God, he could throw up right now. He’s not sure if he’s ever been so scared. He can hear the crying on the other end get louder, a sob escapes his throat and can’t be muffled. “Tell me where you are,” he says again, his bones in his hands host earthquakes, “please.”

“Science building.” He hesitates before saying more and Eddie starts running. Despite running for most of his life, this is the fastest. His feet slam against the pavement with each movement and it vibrates up his legs. He doesn’t care. “I’m at the top of it. The rooftop garden.” The words have nausea pulling at his stomach, lurching with each movement. He keeps running, even when breathing feels like swallowing fire.

“Wait there,” Eddie nearly yells. His legs burn and ache but he pushes himself faster. He doesn’t hear anything. “Please, Rich, I’m right here.” His breath is gone, panting and covered in sweat as he bursts through the doors; the stairs make the muscles in his thighs scream. He’s almost there. The door slams against the wall when he pushes it open, the sight of Richie stops him dead.

Wild curls billowing in the warm wind, there are tears smeared on his cheeks and such sadness in his eyes; he sits against the railing as if he hasn’t found the nerve to climb over it yet. It breaks Eddie. It  _ shatters _ him. Maybe from the running or what’s happening, it’s hard to make himself stay standing, but he manages. He takes a cautious step closer and feels his knees wobble. The straps of Richie’s tank top are slipping off his shoulders, a new tattoo revealed the further one falls. Eddie can’t tell what it is, but doesn’t care right now.

He says his name and doesn’t know if his voice is his own. It doesn’t sound like it. He can’t say anything more, but it’s enough. Richie brings himself to his feet, slowly, and walks toward him until Eddie throws his arms around him and starts crying; he holds him tighter than he’s ever held anybody and tighter than he’s ever been held.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice muffled. Eddie pulls away and puts his hands on Richie’s cheeks, shaking him slightly.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Eddie shouts, voice cracking as he pulls him into a hug again. “God, you scared me so much.” The words tumble out of him. He doesn’t have time to give them much thought until it’s quiet again.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. Richie’s arms fall to his sides.

“No, it—” Eddie pauses, making him look into his eyes, “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault.” He feels his heart pounding in his chest and his hands shake, still trying to caress Richie’s cheek. He doesn’t know if it’s okay. All he knows is he cares about him and he’d do anything to make him happy. He wants him to pour his precious heart out and tell him what’s wrong.

“I think I need to go to a crisis center,” he says softly. Eddie can only nod.  _ Hospitals. _ Crisis centers are in hospitals. They walk to the doors and find the elevator. It’s silent apart from the blaring dings of passing each floor. It’s an overwhelming thought, but he knows he can go to a hospital for Richie. So, they walk out of the building, hand in hand, as if nothing happened. The cobblestone paths seem to be as uneven as ever, stumbling along them until reaching the lot where Eddie’s car is parked. The ride there is silent too. Each exit closer, he tries to convince himself he can do this without panic. He doesn’t know if he can, but he walks in with Richie all the same.

The waiting room is full of people.  _ Sick people. _ He sits in a blue chair next to him.  _ Diseased people. _ Richie fills out the paperwork they gave him.  _ Sickly boy. _ He fills it out fast. Has he done this before?  _ Diseased boy. _ Panic fires off in every cell when Richie gets up to hand it to the woman at the desk. Someone sneezes and he jumps, bringing his knees to his chest as if it can save him from the germs.  _ Germs. Germs. Germs. _ His hands won’t stop shaking. In between every twitch, he reminds himself he’s there for Richie.

“You okay?” Richie asks, sitting back down in the blue chair. His cheeks are still smeared with eyeliner and his honey eyes are full of concern.

“You’re asking me?” He tries not to laugh. He hopes he doesn’t sound mean.

“Yeah, hospitals aren’t exactly your happy place.”

“Your safety’s more important than my feelings.” They don’t speak much after that. The sounds of intercom announcements, shuffling feet, and swarms of germs.  _ Germs.  _ Richie’s name gets called and he grabs Eddie’s hand to lead him back with him. He’s surprised he’s allowed at all.

There are so many questions while they sit in a small room with a hospital bed; about what happened, how he got here, if he took anything. They make Eddie leave for the rest of them. He sits on the floor outside of the room, trying to keep his heart steady. His eyes don’t leave the clock. Every sudden noise makes him flinch and every movement in the corner of his eye makes his stomach drop; he contemplates stepping out more than a few times, convincing himself he can wait just a bit longer because he’s sure he wouldn’t be able to step back in.

It’s ninety minutes later, a painful and horrible ninety minutes, when the nurse comes out of the room and tells Eddie what’s happening. They’re not going to admit Richie to an inpatient facility but they’re going to keep him until he’s sober. Something called an EOU (Eddie tries not to seem judgemental of the choice). He’s grateful he’s allowed to stay with him, though his hands shake when he opens the door. His strength splinters upon seeing Richie there — sitting on the bed in teal hospital gowns, staring at the TV with the weather channel on, and finally free of the eyeliner smears. He looks  _ vulnerable. _

“Thanks for driving me,” he says, not tearing his eyes away from the screen. His fair skin looks paler under the fluorescent lights, it almost makes his freckles disappear. Eddie grabs a chair from the corner and drags it next to the bed, an ear-aching squeak along with it. He almost goes to grab his hand, but the hospital band stops him.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“You hate hospitals.”

“I know.”

“I know,” he echoes, his voice is soft. They don’t try to make conversation, maybe for another hour (neither of them bother to check). What else is there to do but wait? Nurses come in to check his BAC and it’s a bit lower than before, they keep giving him water to drink. Richie asks if he can use his phone and they look at him like it’s a weird question, but they say yes. Once the nurse leaves, he has his phone up to his ear and Eddie’s standing.

“I can go.” He’s ready to walk into the hall.

“No,” he mumbles, “you can stay.” The dial tone seems to make him nauseous, cheeks suddenly flush, and Eddie’s stomach drops when he hears the urgent tone of Went’s voice over the line. He still kind of wants to leave — this seems too private — but the look in Richie’s eyes when he starts to stand again makes him slump back into the chair.

“Hey,” he says, “yeah, I’m okay.” Eddie can see the worry twisting in his face, in the way his fingers pull at loose threads on the blanket. He can’t blame him, he doesn’t know how he’d tell someone about something like this. “I’m not in trouble.” Richie’s voice cracks and he squeezes his eyes shut. He’s trying so hard not to cry, Eddie can  _ hear _ it.

“I’m in the hospital.” There’s an explosion of sound from the speaker; he isn’t sure how Richie understands it all, but the contorted look on his face gets worse. He’s going to break at any second. “No, I’m fine. No inpatient.” For the second time tonight, Eddie wonders if Richie’s done this before.

“I didn’t do anything. I was drunk and I—” He keeps picking at the threads and refuses to look at anything but the blanket beneath his legs. “No, don’t wake her up. I’ll deal with it later. Tell her when I'm home and I’ll talk to her then.” There’s a long, long pause on both ends of the line. Ren’s voice starts to play in Eddie’s head.  _ Do you think he’s as happy as he looks? _ The look on her face suddenly makes sense, it makes him feel sick.

“I  _ know _ it’s stupid, Dad. I just...I haven’t been taking them for months. I didn’t think I needed to anymore.” Richie’s voice lowers, somehow ashamed. Went’s voice gets a little louder, but he doesn’t jump. He shuts his eyes, bracing, but still gentle.

“I know what I could’ve done but I didn’t. I called someone and asked for help.” Somewhere in those words are more. Something in them suggests he didn’t ask for help before. Eddie’s sure there was a before now and, as he’d expected, he doesn’t know how to feel.

“I called Eddie and he came.” Richie refuses to look over at him and, honestly, he’s glad. He doesn’t know if he can handle it, all he wants is to tell him he’ll always come when he calls. He’ll always be there. “He got me down from a building,” he says, softer than before. There’s another pause, not nearly as long this time.

“I’m sorry,” Richie says, “love you too.” He clicks the end button and tries to breathe, it’s shaky and shallow and stuttering. His phone plops against the mattress and a muffled sob escapes his throat, head in his hands to hide his face from the world. Eddie doesn’t know what to do, but his hand finds his and he sits on the edge of the bed.

“Do you need anything?” Eddie asks. He doesn’t expect Richie to throw his arms around him and squeeze so tight; he buries his head into the crook of his neck and doesn’t let go. Eddie can feel his tears smearing against his shirt. The amount of emotions pulsing through the both of them could power an entire country.

“Thanks for staying.”

“I wasn’t gonna leave you.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t thank you.” They stay embraced for a while. Time passes and a nurse checks Richie’s BAC again, leaving to get paperwork for him to fill out for discharge since it’s so much lower. They’ve been here for four hours, finally cut short when he signs the last of the forms and takes a packet of outpatient resources from them. Eddie drives despite knowing he shouldn’t, and Richie knows too.

“Eds, maybe we should—”

“I need to get out of here.”

“Yeah, but I can—”

“It’s fine.” So, the car ride is silent, with every noise amplified by the fizzing tension rebounding between them both. Richie, back in his normal clothes, is curled up in the passenger’s seat with his knees to his chest. His curls are smushed against the window while he looks out at the street lights passing overhead, his fingers are fiddling with the hospital band around his wrist. His honeyed eyes are captivated by the sky, where the sun breaks through the horizon and lights up the world in a dim, pale way until it can rise above them all. The sleeves of his hoodie fall past his hands and his shoes are lying sprawled across the floor mat, his toes hang off the edge of the seat.

The panic in Eddie is running wild, no reigns to pull it in and rampant now that there’s no pressure to not draw attention to himself. He taps his fingers on the wheel, loud and irregular patterns. He can’t look at himself but, if he did, he’d see the damage. Nails bitten down to blood, a rat’s nest of hair, and clenched teeth — it’s impossible to ignore. Everything is collapsing on him, crushing him beneath its weight. There’s time to process what’s happened and it buries him alive.

“Pull over,” Richie says, “you need to calm down or let me drive, or we’re gonna get into an accident.” Eddie glances over just to make sure he’s there.  _ Richie’s still there. _ His heart splits at the seams and he pulls over into the first parking lot he sees. An empty grocery store, not open yet. The street lights start to shut off because it’s getting bright enough to navigate without them.

It gets violent fast — strangled sobs, sights blurred from tears, and Eddie’s fist hitting the steering wheel. He doesn’t stop. He drives his fist into it over and over and over, until he feels Richie grab his wrist and yank it toward him. He stares at him, wide-eyed and terror-stricken, before his gaze falls on his hand; ripped skin, bloody knuckles, and twitching fingers. Eddie can’t feel the pain yet. Richie fumbles to search for the first aid kit he knows he has here somewhere and finds it in the glovebox, stocked up with neosporin and band-aids. He doesn’t wait for permission, his nimble fingers make short work of ripping open the rubbing alcohol pads. His teeth just barely dig into his lip.

“It’s gonna sting.”

“I know it stings,” Eddie snaps.

“I know you know.” He frowns, dragging it across Eddie’s broken skin anyway and not pausing even when he hears him hissing between his teeth. He doesn’t dare look up at him, he just focuses on his hand. 

“Talk to me,” he says softly. He puts dabs of neosporin on the white gauze of each band-aid and flattens them against the cuts and scrapes; he almost smiles when he sees the pattern on the front — of course they’re Spiderman band-aids.

“This isn’t about me.”

“It is now. I’m not the one freaking out.”

“You’re the one who was in the fucking hospital.”

“I’m sorry you had to spend so much time there,” Richie says, the frown still on his face. Eddie scoffs, nearly pulling away from him and screaming. He doesn’t scream, he doesn’t pull away, but he looks mortified.

“It’s not about the fucking hospital, you goddamn asshole! I love you, you know that?” Eddie’s voice breaks, hand trembling at Richie’s touch. “You’re my best friend and I love you and I don’t know what I’d do without you and I never thought about how real the possibility of actually losing you is.” His eyes are full of tears, blurring his vision still. Richie hates the sight, he doesn’t think there’s anything he wouldn’t do just to keep him from feeling like this again.

“I know you love me,” he says softly, “and I love you too, Eds.” There’s no time to contemplate the meaning behind the words. There’s no reason to. It isn’t important, not now. “You’d figure out how to deal with shit if I’m not around, though.” He means it as a compliment, he means he’s braver than he thinks he is. Who knows how long Eddie will want to keep him in his life? And if, for whatever reason, he decides to cut him out of it then he’ll have no trouble adjusting. He knows Eddie doesn’t realize when he loses it.

“I DON’T WANT TO!” he screeches. The volume hurts both of their ears. “I don’t  _ want _ to know what life’s like without you. You make it better. You make it bearable. I don’t want to fucking go back to what it was like without you.” Then, there’s nothing. For a moment, Eddie wants to tell him. He opens his mouth to, but decides against it.

There’s enough going on right now. He doesn’t need to add this too. He tries to imagine how the conversation would even go:  _ hey, Richie. I know you literally just got out of the hospital for almost trying to kill yourself but I think it’s important for you to know I’m gay and have a huge homo crush on you. _ He almost laughs at the thought, mentally berating himself for having it in the first place. Richie doesn’t let go of his hand.

“You don’t have to worry about me not being in your life. I’m not going anywhere,” he says surely, as if nothing can change it. On his side, that’s true. He doesn’t want to know a life without Eddie either.

“How do you know that?” Eddie asks, shrill and thin. His eyes shy away from Richie’s.  _ How do you know you won’t do this again? How do you know you won't succeed if you try? _ The image of Richie sitting by the ledge, curls whipped by wind, won’t leave his brain. He thinks it might haunt him forever. He can feel his hand tense up with the rest of his body. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked.

“Point out your finger.” Eddie listens to him. Richie rolls the right sleeve of his hoodie up to his elbow and takes a deep breath. He takes Eddie’s hand again and touches his index finger to his skin. At first, he doesn’t understand — until Richie runs his finger over the tattoo on his forearm and his blood runs cold.

All he can do is stare at it: a thick, ragged scar so intricately hidden by the only professional tattoo Richie has. The sobbing, three-faced Lucifer from Dante’s Inferno, suddenly the reference makes sense and he doesn't think he's breathing. How has he never noticed? How has he not fucking seen it? Did he not pay enough attention?

“I didn’t notice,” Eddie says softly, laced with realization and fear. It’s all he can say.

“That was the point.” Richie grabs his hand again. Spiderman bandaids and edges of a worn-in hoodie.

“I didn’t notice,” he says again, angrier this time.

“I didn’t fuckin’ want you to notice, Eddie,” Richie argues, “I didn’t want you to worry, you didn’t have to.” He knows who the anger is directed at and he won’t have it. He won’t let him blame himself for something out of his control.

_ “Yes, I did.” _

“No,” he looks him right in the eyes and doesn’t back down, even at the sight of the tears, “you didn’t.” Eddie stares, not quite present. Richie doesn’t give him the chance to argue the idea any further. “I didn’t want things to change, you know? I could pretend I didn’t have some tragic backstory and you wouldn’t look at me any different.”

“You know I would never—”

“I know,” he sighs.

“It won’t change things.” His voice comes out strangled again, he thinks his whole body might be trembling. It  _ is. _ Tears still slowly roll down his cheeks and he breathes, albeit shakily, through the small parting of his lips. Something in his chest aches, consuming like a blackhole that ever expands. Richie seems to know what he wants to ask.

“I was sixteen, about six months after we moved.”

“You don’t have to talk about it.”

“No, you should know. I mean, we’re already this far.” Richie tries to smile, he swears he does, but he doesn’t know if his brain listens. He delves into it all: how he locked himself in his bathroom and left a note, how he saw all the blood and panicked, how he stumbled down the hall to find a phone but found Ren, how she tried to stop the bleeding and called 911, how the paramedics came into the house and whisked him away in an ambulance. Eddie couldn’t find words even if someone forced him to. He still doesn’t think he’s breathing.

“I don’t remember a whole lot about things after getting to the ER, just that I got sent to an inpatient place for a month. They diagnosed me with manic depression and started treating me from there,” Richie says. The sunlight looks so much better on his skin than the hospital lights.

“The crash and burn,” Eddie mumbles. All the signs make sense — every last one — and he kicks himself for not recognizing them sooner. Reckless behavior, boundless energy, and a mouth that runs a mile a minute. Then crippling sadness, oversleeping, and irritability. Just to name a few. Richie seems surprised he remembers the term, but nods all the same.

“Yeah.”

“Why did you do it?” he asks. Panic dances on the edges of his voice.

“Ren says my childhood was shit. I always argue with her but she’s right.” The words make Eddie freeze. Did he hear them talking on the beach? There’s a pit quickly forming in his stomach. If he did, it means he knows. “Do you remember how I said we moved because of that kid who beat the shit out of me?”

“‘Course I do.”

“I kind of implied it was a one-time thing. But, it wasn’t. It happened a lot, that was just the worst time,” Richie says. His eyes don’t move from Eddie’s, but his body relaxes against the seat. “I think I’m in mourning all the time. I never really got to be a teenager because of my sadness and I never got to do normal teenage things because I’m gay — among other shit. I think that’s why I don’t want to grow up, I want to be a kid so I can do all those things that got stolen from me.”

“Jesus.” Eddie’s eyes go wide, just slightly, and Richie shakes his head. Ren was right.

“Did you think I don’t notice at least some of the shit I do?”

“I didn’t think you were so aware of it.” There’s almost humor there and he rolls his eyes. Then, it’s gone. They’re back to being two fucked up kids — if they can still call themselves that in their twenties — in a grocery store parking lot, talking about how one of them wanted to die for most of his life.

“I felt alone, I guess that’s the answer. I always felt alone and I still do sometimes. The whole clusterfuck of Bowers sending me to the hospital and my parents’ divorce and Ren not talking—”

“He sent you to the hospital?” Eddie can’t tell if he feels sick or angry. Maybe both. Both sound right. There’s no amount of money he’d refuse to pay if it meant he could punch him right in the fucking face for what he did to Richie.

“Oh,” he says, “yeah. He did. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay.” Eddie nods. He’s surprised they’re talking about this at all. It’s the most Richie’s ever talked about his emotions since they’ve met. Maybe ever, but he thinks that might be a stretch.  _ Hyperbole foul, _ he can hear him sneering in his head. Thoughts of the night make his skin crawl, bad panic attacks and labored breathing; he told Richie, if he didn’t finish a paper in the next two hours, he’d drop dead. All Richie could do is smile and mumble those two words. It’s what he does occasionally now, when Eddie gets too worked up to think straight and dramatizes little things.

“I was already fucked up before all that, obviously. When I was up, I was way up. When I was down, I was way down. I think that was the worst it’s ever been and I just wanted out. I didn’t want to ask for help. I know I do it a lot.”

“You asked this time.”

“Sort of.”

“No,” Eddie shifts in his seat and leans closer, they haven’t stopped holding hands, “you  _ did _ ask. What was different?” The sun is higher in the sky, brighter than when they pulled over. Richie uses his free hand to wipe the tears from Eddie’s eyes. His thumb brushes against his cheek and lingers.

“I don’t think I want to die,” he says. Something about it sounds wrong considering the situation. He takes Eddie’s hand again. “I like to forget, I try a lot at least. But, I do remember how it felt sometimes. I was scared. I thought I wanted to die and I got so close to it, but I think I just wanted to be happy. I  _ do _ want to be happy,”

“I think my brain needed to give me a reason not to, so it gave me you. I had to call you before I left and you answered.” The words flood Eddie’s chest, they fill the blackhole until it’s cemented over. All he can do is stare like he’s been doing. He tries to memorize the details of Richie’s face; stardust freckles, whiskey eyes, and pink lips. He tries to tell himself he isn’t going to lose him so he doesn’t have to memorize them. It doesn’t work.

“Richie, I love you,” he says, hoping it’ll get through, “I’m not saying it because I think it’ll make you feel better. I mean it. You’re so fucking important and I don’t just mean to me, even though you are, I mean in general. The world doesn’t deserve you but I’m goddamn grateful we get to have you.” He hopes he understands in the silence. He hopes he understands in the light of the early morning. He hopes he understands with their hands clasped together.  _ I love you, I love you, I love you. _

“How did you know something was wrong when I called?”

“Because I know you, Rich, and you were gone for days,” he says, starting the car again and driving. So, the car ride is silent, every noise amplified by the fizzing tension rebounding between them both. The parking lot is cool concrete and cigarette butts, they walk to Eddie’s building and he checks Richie in as a guest again.

The elevator is suffocating and eerie, they head up to his dorm and try not to wake Stan. Richie doesn’t hesitate, climbing into the bed and settling on the side closest to the wall. Eddie is glad the room is dark; Richie can’t see how red his face is turning when he lays with him, slipping under the covers and practically on top of him, legs tangled together and a hand on his chest. There isn’t much room. Richie’s arm is around him, he tries not to think about it but it’s all so much. It’s different from every other time.  _ Sandalwood and amber. _ He can feel his heart racing.  _ Nicotine and mojito chapstick. _ He hopes he can’t tell just from how close they are.

“Eds,” he mumbles, it nearly makes him jump, “thanks for caring about me.” He presses his lips against his temple and falls under sleep’s heavy spell.  _ Sandalwood and amber. _ He doesn’t know why Richie keeps thanking him, he’d walk through hellfire for him in a heartbeat.

“I’ll always care,” Eddie whispers, too late for him to hear but he knows all the same.  _ Nicotine and mojito chapstick. _ In the dimly lit room, between heartbeats and the steady whirring of a fan, he thinks the world is exploding before him.  _ Oh god, _ he thinks.  _ Oh god, oh god, oh god. _ He watches the way shadows curl across the curves of Richie’s cheeks and can’t breathe. It feels like he should've realized he was in love with him sooner.

But, he doesn’t just love Richie. It isn’t that.

He wants to wake up next to him in the morning and listen to him ramble about his strange dreams. He wants to make him breakfast while he sleeps in and watch a smile unfurl on his face when he sees. He wants to hear him whisper his name between linen sheets and lulling music.

He wants to memorize him; he wants to know every pitch, every rise and fall, every curve of him. He wants to know his poems and sonnets by heart, because that’s all that lives within his skin. He wants to tell him he’s not a sob story, catastrophes don’t run in his veins and tragedies aren’t embedded in his bones. He wants him to know he’s a world wonder all his own.

Eddie Kaspbrak is irrevocably, undeniably in love with Richie Tozier.

The feeling hits him like a bolt from the blue.

He almost, for a brief instant, wakes him up to say it. His fingers trail along his jawline and he holds his breath, but the confidence fades fast upon seeing him stir. He lets him sleep instead, letting the smell of sandalwood and amber intoxicate him until he finds sleep too.

★★★

Things seem better, weirdly so, even with the tension between them. Richie’s started taking his medications again and has appointments with his therapist booked for the next coming weeks. Eddie’s been working on a piece for Gazebos & Placebos that’s supposed to be his official coming out, he’s sworn to himself he’s going to tell Richie before the month ends.

But, for now, there’s the tension. It gnaws at them in every instance of quiet and stillness; maybe because Richie feels weird about opening up, definitely because Eddie doesn’t know what to do now that he knows he’s in love with him. Sometimes, when he can’t help but look at him even during the most mundane moments, he’s scared he can tell. He sort of hopes he can. The past half hour’s been exclusively made up of stolen glances and rigid silence.

“Can I ask you something that’s gonna make you uncomfortable?” Richie asks. He looks up from his laptop, the bright screen reflects off the lenses of his glasses and exhaustion’s kisses still prominently displayed beneath his eyes; he’s been working on the same short routine for his stand-up writing class for days.

The dark green sweater he seems to drown in just makes him all the more lovely looking. Eddie can’t focus on anything but the glimpses of Richie’s collarbones every time he shifts on the couch. There are more tattoos there: a lollipop, a paper airplane, and an ampersand. His hand has a new one too, the letters XO in his shitty handwriting at the base of his left thumb. He no longer asks what they mean.

“I doubt my answer will stop you.”

“Yeah, it won’t.”

“Have at it then.” Eddie puts down the stack of index cards in his hands — at least he doesn’t have to pretend to be looking at them — and turns to face him, crossing his legs despite the pull of his tight jeans. He’s been trying much harder than usual to look good, wearing colors he knows Richie likes on him and opting for slimmer fitting pants; he swears he’s caught him looking at his ass a few times.

“Stop telling the rest of the Losers to check up on me when you can’t be around.” He doesn’t watch the expression on Eddie’s face, continuing to type. He can still feel the burning in his skin from his eyes, though; it’s what makes him shut the laptop and face him. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice I’m, like,  _ never _ alone anymore? If you aren’t with me then it’s someone else.” He knows most of them don’t know. Besides Eddie, Bill and Beverly are the only Losers who know the specifics of what happened. He assumes the rest of them are doing it because they realized how weird he’d been acting lately.

“I’m just trying to make sure you’re okay.”

“I know, Eds, but there’s a line and it gets crossed once I don’t have the privacy to jerk off anymore.” He ignores the way Eddie’s face turns bright red. They haven’t talked about sex since their MarioKart tournament. But, he’s being serious.

“Okay,” he mumbles. It’s the easiest way of saying he’s going to try and stop worrying so much. He doesn’t know how well it’ll go, some nights he doesn’t sleep because he’s afraid Richie will call him again and he won’t be awake to answer. He hasn’t told him about that, but he’s sure he’s noticed. Most mornings, when they hang out in the quad before a class or listen to music at their secret spot, Richie has a cup of coffee waiting for him; when he doesn’t, he always asks if he wants to go get one. Eddie’s weariness manifests itself within crinkled crow’s feet and a lack of patience, it’s not hard to miss.

Richie stands up, too affected by the warmth inside to keep the window closed, and peels off the evergreen sweater to reveal the black tank top underneath. Eddie tries not to stare when he ambles to the window and opens it, but he fails. His eyes trail down the lines of Richie’s biceps, how his shoulder blades pinch in the smallest of ways; he’s been trying to exercise more, hoping it’ll make him feel better, and it’s been working. Sometimes, he’ll even join Eddie on his runs, but it usually ends in complaints of him being too fast to keep up with. He never minds it.

“Can  _ I _ ask you something that’s gonna make  _ you _ uncomfortable?” Eddie asks, watching the flicker in Richie’s eyes as he turns around to look at him. He leans against the window sill, tilts his head ever so slightly, and folds his arms over his chest.  _ God, he’s going to kill me, _ Eddie thinks. Something about knowing he’s in love makes it all the more difficult to avoid talking about.

“I doubt my answer will stop you.” A shit-eating grin blooms across Richie’s lips.  _ Nicotine and mojito chapstick. _ It sears in Eddie’s veins.

“If I never picked up my phone...were you really going to jump?” The smile disappears in an instant, it’s like watching lightning flash in the sky. His arms drop back down to his sides and his shoulders drop too. Eddie glances at the tattoo on his forearm and his blood feels cold again, he can’t forget how it felt to run his finger over the scar. He’ll never forget, that much he knows for sure.

“You know how I know when you’re worrying about me?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Humor me,” Richie waits for him to sigh, ”I know when you’re worrying about me because you don’t stop looking at my fucking arm.” He smiles, satisfied, upon watching Eddie’s eyes dart away from the tattoo.

“I’m just trying—”

“To make sure I’m okay.  _ I know, _ Eds. I just feel coddled.” The word hits exactly the right nerve, Richie knew they would. Eddie gets up, ducking his head to walk away from the couch, and stands in the middle of the room. He knows why Richie said it, why he used that specific word; it’s the same one Eddie used in a column piece to describe how his mother made him feel. Annoyance glints in his bones.

“Low blow,” he mutters, a hand finding its way to his hip. The tension starts to feel like a powderkeg again. Neither of them know who will ignite it, but it’s going to ignite. They’re kind of surprised it hasn’t already. It’s about time shit hit the fan. Things have been better, so it’s only a matter of time. They can’t seem to avoid it.

“It’s true.” Richie doesn’t back down. That’s the spark, the only one they need.

“Excuse me for wanting you to stay safe.” Eddie’s eyes burn right through Richie’s soul.

“I never fucking asked you to!” He stops leaning on the window sill, but his fingers try to dig into the edge of it. It’s only quiet for a second, it feels so much longer.

“Well you don’t have a fucking choice in that, do you?” Fury rages like a forest fire in each of them. For Eddie, it’s because of fear; a constant loop in his head of  _ please don’t leave me like that _ and  _ I never want to see you in a hospital gown again. _ For Richie, it’s because of something else — something unknown but powerful nonetheless. He stalks over, suddenly seeming so much taller than he normally is, and stares down at him. They’re close. Really, really close.

“Just because you know about it now doesn’t mean it’s any of your business.”

“It  _ is _ my business. I’m your fucking friend, Rich. That’s what friends do. They care about each other. I care about you, let it go. You can’t push me away.” Eddie’s voice is steady and strong. Richie’s mouth twitches and he pushes Eddie away, quite literally.  _ I can make you leave, _ it means. Eddie’s back hits the wall behind him and adrenaline throbs in his veins, he can feel it in every last capillary, prickling like pins. He doesn’t break his stare, doesn’t shy away from those molotov eyes.  _ I’ll never leave, _ it answers.

“You don’t wanna know how cold I can get, Eddie.” Richie looms closer, glaring down at him. They’re  _ really _ close. “I don’t want to be cruel.” His voice goes straight to the pit in Eddie’s stomach. They’re nearly chest to chest. He just shakes his head, trying to sound softer.

“Nothing you do and nothing you say can ever make me leave,” he whispers. The anger doesn’t vanish. But, is it anger anymore? He feels like it’s something else. Richie’s hands keep brushing against his hips and his breathing suddenly feels unsteady. Oh.  _ Oh, _ he realizes. His heart skips beats and his knees feel weak and he  _ wants _ him. Richie can’t find words, eyes intensely set on Eddie’s face, they flicker down to his lips and ignite there too. The world is motionless, falling away like background noise, and nothing else matters.

Eddie grabs the neck of Richie’s shirt and then they’re kissing, not really sure who went for it first. It’s different than the first time, no longer timid or modest — it’s rough and heated and needy. Richie hooks his fingers into the belt loops of Eddie’s jeans and pulls, moving his hands to his waist once their hips are close enough. Eddie tangles his fingers in the curls of Richie’s hair, tugging on the longest ones and earning a string of muffled curses could become his favorite song. Richie’s tongue runs across his bottom lip and chills go down his spine; his lips part and,  _ dear fucking god, _ the taste of nicotine and mojito chapstick might be heaven on earth. He could damn near whine when Richie stops.

“Fuckin’ blue raspberry bubblegum,” he mumbles, wasting no time before kissing him again. Roaming hands, breathy moans, and almost grinding hips. Eddie thinks he could die the moment Richie’s lips trail down his neck and his hands slip up his shirt. It hits him, all at once, this is something they’re doing.  _ Tell him, _ his mind screams at him.  _ TELL HIM TELL HIM TELL HIM. _ He knows he can.

“Rich,” his voice rasps, “Richie, wait.” He doesn’t know what look is on his face but, whatever it is, it makes Richie back away. Eddie can see the series of emotions he goes through in a matter of seconds. First, he’s worried. He’s terrified of having crossed the same line he had in November. Then, he’s confused. He knows this time is different. And, finally, he’s angry.

“Shit,” he hisses between his teeth. He starts pacing, pushing his hair from his face. “You wanna tell me why the fuck you kissed me?” He settles, waiting for an answer, but Eddie doesn’t have one. His cheeks are flushed and his hair's a mess and he’s still high on kissing him.

“I wanted to,” he says, taking a step closer. Richie backs away again and every urge to smile disintegrates.

“Really? Because you seemed like you wanted to the last time and you had a real different fucking attitude after that.” Richie’s eyes burn with something Eddie hasn’t seen before.  _ Apoplectic. _ That’s the only word Eddie can think of to describe it, but even that feels too weak. “Are you fucking with me or just pitying me this time?”

“No, I’m—”

“What then, are you gay?” The question doesn’t phase Eddie, until Richie spits out another word —  _ the  _ word — and it steals the breath from Eddie’s lungs in an instant. He thinks he might throw up. “Huh, Eds, is that the word I should be looking for? The same one as last time?” Eddie’s hands host earthquakes, the aftershocks reverberate in his chest. He can’t make himself talk. All the air in the room seems to run from him, but Richie keeps going.

“You know, when you apologized to me for what happened, I thought that maybe—” he stops, only for a moment. Laughter, brief and sardonic, dances from him. “Nevermind what I thought. Maybe you’re just like your mother, an asshole who likes to fuck with other people’s heads.” Eddie feels the earth split beneath his feet. He hopes it swallows him whole. He doesn’t know if Richie tells him to leave or if he just grabs his stuff and walks out, but he’s running down the sidewalk to his building before he can blink.  _ Sickly boy. Filthy boy. Delicate boy. _

The girl at the front desk looks concerned when she swipes him in, but she doesn’t say anything.  _ Weak boy. Broken boy. Diseased boy. _ The people he passes by on the stairs look concerned too, they don’t say anything either. It takes a few tries for his key to go in the lock. The door shuts behind him and he thinks he might be screaming.  _ I’ve been trying for years to help you get better. _ Stan is there in an instant, hands gripping his shoulders so tightly and trying to pull him back to his feet. When did he fall? Does it matter?  _ She was right. She was right. She was right. _

“Oh god,” Stan sounds terrified, “Eddie, look at me. What happened?” He doesn’t answer him. He can’t. He reaches toward his room door and wheezes, vying for any air he can take in. Stan knows, and he hates that he does. “Shit, where is it? Medicine drawer?” He runs to Eddie’s room and the sound of rummaging echoes. His lungs burn and he thinks he might be crying. The last piece of his heart shatters when Stan comes back to him, holding the inhaler he could never get rid of.

“Breathe. You’re okay,” Stan whispers, holding him close to his chest after a few puffs from the inhaler. All Eddie can do is sob — sob and wail and heave. In movies, it’d be beautiful; he’d have a single, perfect tear run down his cheek and he’d look like a disheveled angel while sad indie music plays overhead. It’s not beautiful; tears mix with the snot dripping from his nose, his head feels like someone took a hammer to it, and every strangled cry sounds like a braying mule. There’s no music, only the empty echo of his misery. Stan doesn’t falter, he holds him and tries to coax him into a calmer place.

“You’re okay,” he says, pressing his lips to the top of Eddie’s head, “I promise. I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere.” He rocks a bit, hoping it will help a little. It’s never been this bad before; he’s never seen him like this and never wants to see it again. “I love you. I love you so much. You’re okay.” He repeats those things and keeps rocking until Eddie’s crying stops, it takes a long time. When it finally dies down, at least enough to be manageable, Eddie tells him everything.

★★★

Eddie’s been here, curled up on the purple couch with his hood pulled over his head, for a while and still hasn’t said a word. He knows Cara is looking at him because he can feel it, but he doesn’t dare look up. The only reason he’s here at all is because Stan and Beverly made him go, they’re sitting in the waiting room to make sure he stays. There’s been radio silence between him and Richie for days. Eddie refuses to even look at him when they pass each other by. This time Richie’s the one trying to seek him out.

“Your friends are here,” Cara says, clicking and unclicking her pen. The white noise machine feels like static in his brain.

“They’re making sure I came.” He doesn’t dare look up. He keeps his head down and tries to keep his fingers digging into his arms, something to focus on other than what’s in his head.

“Why didn’t you want to?”

“I think I might break if I talk.” He  _ knows _ he’ll break if he talks. Beverly only heard what happened from Richie, at least he assumes. He tries not to listen when she offers advice, all of it revolves around talking to him. He can’t and he won’t. Not yet, at least.

“We don’t have to talk, then. We can do something else.” It makes him look, shooting a confused glance in Cara’s direction that makes her smile. A small victory. “I have puzzles, if you like those. Scrabble and cards if you don’t.” So, they play Rummy. They sit on the watercolor rug around piles of cards, not saying much of anything until Eddie hears Cara’s phone go off. He can see her hesitate to reach for it.

“You should answer it,” he says, looking over the cards in his hand. He doesn’t have much of anything. Cara’s already kicking his ass and he never loses card games. She smiles upon unlocking her phone, a really big and bright smile.

“My daughter Jess got engaged,” she says. Somewhere in there is a  _ finally. _ She turns her attention back to the game and doesn’t miss the confusion on his face. He didn’t know she had a daughter, he definitely didn’t know she had a daughter old enough to get married. “I’m older than you think, I just have great skin.” Laughter fills the room, replacing the static from the white noise machine. The pile keeps shrinking and Cara wins. They start another game.

“Did she tell you she thought they were gonna propose?”

“Oh, no. She bought the ring weeks ago and kept backing out. I think Katy found the box in their bedroom and asked why she hadn’t been proposed to yet.” Her light eyes flutter up from her cards, watching the blank expression take over his face. It takes a bit for him to connect the dots. Her daughter is gay like him.

First, it fills him with glee; he lives in a world where people in love can be in love, at least in this small corner of it. But, then, it fills him with dread; he’s tried to accept he won’t have things like that, his heart still yearns for that kind of love. He thinks of the shock on Richie’s face in December, when he realized Eddie sees himself alone forever.  _ You deserve the kind of love that makes you question why you ever thought you could go without it. _ He wonders if Richie will ever get married before locking it away in a deep crevice somewhere. The thought alone brings a bitter taste to his tongue, he wants the nicotine and mojito chapstick again.

“I wish I could get married,” he whispers. He puts his cards face down on the floor and Cara emulates him. Another small victory.

“Can I tell you a story?” she asks, waiting for him to nod, “Jess came home from class one day, I think she was twenty, and she was bawling. I mean, I’ve never seen her cry so much and she was the fussiest baby on the face of the earth. I asked her what was wrong and she just ran right past me, slammed the door in my face when I followed,”

“It took  _ hours _ to get her to let me in. But, when she did, we just sat on her bed and she looked at me so sadly.” Cara starts shuffling the cards again, they flap against each other and sometimes get caught on her long nails. He gives her the few he had, he knows the game is over. He knows she’s going to get him to talk. “She just looked at me and she said, ‘Mom, I’m never gonna fall in love.’ And she told me all these horrible things, like being unable to have those kinds of experiences. I asked her why and she started crying again.” He knows, deep down, where the story is going.

“That’s when Jess told me she’s gay,” she says. And, even though he expected it, it breaks Eddie. She tells him about helping her daughter find a community, about going to Pride parades, and about how she got to see her daughter fall in love just like she swore she’d never get to do. That breaks him too.

“I kissed Richie,” he blurts out, the memory aches in his chest, “I kissed him and I was about to tell him. Then he just...” His tongue feels too big for his mouth, he thinks he could choke on it.

“About to tell him,” Cara says softly. She doesn’t miss anything.

“I kinda did more than kiss him. We were arguing and it got really intense, but I was going to tell him! I actually fucking stopped mid-fucking-makeout because I wanted to tell him before we went any further and we  _ were  _ gonna go further.” There are no spaces between his words, flying so quickly from his mouth they seem to spew out like water from a spit take. He doesn’t know just how much further it would’ve gone; he tries not to think about it. “He kept interrupting me and I know  _ why _ he said it, but he said that word.” His throat twists shut. He can’t say it, just like he couldn’t the first time. She still knows.

“Oh,” she stares at him, “god, Eddie, I’m so sorry.”

“That isn’t the worst part.” Eddie grabs the box of tissues when she offers. Has he been crying the whole time? “I totally lost my shit when I left, I’ve never had a panic attack like that before. The second I stepped through the door to my room I think I screamed because Stan was on me in a second.” His heart warms at the thought of Stan. Fiercely loyal, nurturing Stan. He’s been by his side throughout the whole thing. He doesn’t let him thank him for it either.  _ Because I know you’d do the same, Eddie. _ He would, he knows, but he wants to tell him how much he means to him.

“Stan seems like a really strong support system for you,” Cara says, putting the last of the cards away.

“I don’t really know what I’d do without him,” Eddie admits, “and he knows me so well. Because, when I was having the meltdown, I couldn’t breathe; I just reached out my hand toward my room and he  _ knew." _ His voice gets softer. He doesn’t want to tell her this, he doesn’t want anyone to know he’s not as strong as they think. “I kept one of my old inhalers. Even after everything that happened with her, I couldn’t get rid of it. He knew the second I reached out my hand and he brought it to me.” Shame radiates like shock waves, but she doesn’t look disappointed.

They talk through the poison; what to do about the argument and how to move forward after such a setback. They talk about Stan’s suggestion of cutting Richie out of his life altogether, maybe he should try talking things out before taking such drastic measures or maybe he should consider it — he doesn’t want to do the latter.

Once the time is up, he slips through the door and sees Stan and Beverly sitting in the waiting room. They pretend not to notice the puffiness of his eyes and he pretends not to notice the concern in theirs, making plans to spend the whole weekend at Beverly’s getting high and watching bad movies. It can be the small moments of recharging Eddie needs before he tries to talk to Richie again, everyone knows he’ll need it.

★★★

The earth is dark blue with incandescent lights and chittering voices. He’s been sitting outside the theater for hours, trying to convince himself he can do this. He’s almost left three times now, standing up to start walking but anchored back down before he can make another move — he always sits back down on the concrete stairs. The moon is hidden from the sky, obstructed by dark clouds promising a storm; he doesn’t want to know the potential sign it is, hoping instead the rolling thunder can match the beat of his heart if things work out. He doesn’t know why they wouldn’t. Richie likes him and he likes Richie.

He hears Beverly’s voice first, bright and sweet, and it pulls him from his head. Scattered groups of people pour from the gray doors and spread out across the cobblestone, drifting down different paths. Richie, as usual, comes out last but, this time, alone. His hair, ever uncontrollable, almost looks the same color as the sky under the shining lights. His bag is thrown over his shoulder and a phone number in bright red marker sprawls across his arm. There’s sweat still glimmering across his forehead from the hot, teeming spotlights and a small smile on his lips upon feeling the cool air outside as compared to on the stage.

He only makes it a few steps before his eyes land on Eddie and his whole body goes still; not even his hands fidget like normal. All he can think of is the last time they spoke — the neediness in their kisses and the cruelty in Richie’s words.  _ You don’t wanna know how cold I can get. _ It’s the invitation he needs to sit down next to him, their knees brush against each other and it makes him feel tipsy. They only have so much time before Richie has to go to work.

“I’m sorry.” He breaks the silence and his voice hardly comes out. “Everyone says I wasn’t being fair and they’re right. I shouldn’t have acted like such an asshole and I shouldn’t have brought up something I said I was working past,” he says. His gaze travels down the curves of Eddie’s face and the tension buzzes like bees.  _ Tell him, _ Eddie thinks. “You aren’t like your mother.” It yanks him from his posture, he shrinks beneath the memory.

“No, I’m—”

“You’re not.” Richie doesn’t shy away, voice firm and unyielding. “You aren’t like her, I don’t have to know a lot about her to know that. You’re sweet and you’re brave and you’re good. I was trying to push you away and it was a really shitty thing to do.” He sighs, leaning forward to prop his head on his hands, and his elbows dig into the middles of his thighs.

“I wanna forgive you,” Eddie admits. It’s almost comical — almost. “I just don’t know where to go from here.”

“Whatever works, I guess,” he shifts, anxious, and decides to correct himself, “whatever you want.” Maybe it’s just because Eddie has barely seen him for the past two weeks, but he looks more breathtaking than ever. Or maybe it’s because he just wants to kiss him again; he almost always wanted to do that, getting a glimpse of what it’s like only made it worse.

“You know she used to keep me locked in the house all summer? Padlocks on the doors and sensors on the windows, she’d only let me out to take me to the doctor or Emergency Room. One time—” Eddie pauses, trying to gather his breath. He watches for the mortification everyone gets in their eyes when they learn about the things Sonia’s done. It isn’t just in Richie’s eyes, it’s spread across his entire face too.

“One time, she was walking downtown and saw me with this guy I was friends with because I snuck out of the house. She homeschooled me for six months. I never left the house again, till I found everything out at least.” There’s ice in his voice.  _ I’ve been trying for years to help you get better. _ Richie looks like he might be sick, but he waits for Eddie to continue.

“I was never sick. No asthma, no allergies, no nothing. So I asked, you know: why did you spend my entire life telling me I was diseased if I’m healthy?” He remembers everything. He waited until she finished homeschooling him, until he got his diploma and had an acceptance letter for any out of state college. Then, he cornered her in the kitchen and asked. Her face contorted into a cruel and looming expression that  _ still _ scares him. He can see Richie’s hand twitching between them, palm up and inviting, and he wants to take it.

“She said everything I had was caused by the same thing, and she had to make sure I wouldn’t get worse because of other boys. Because, apparently, she’d always known and kept me locked up all the time to prevent it.” There’s a bitter taste in his mouth. Pill bottles clattering against the tile floor, yelling that echoed across the entire prison of a house, the three days after spent sleeping in his car wherever he ended up driving.

“I told her she was wrong because I  _ knew _ what she meant and I wasn’t going to let her think she was right. But she was, at least about one thing.”

“Shit, Eds,” he mumbles, curls falling over the lenses of his glasses, “I didn’t know.”

“Same boat, I guess. I didn’t want anyone to look at me differently.” He offers a sad smile, which Richie mirrors. He’s overwhelming, the smell of sandalwood and amber with languid eyes.  _ Tell him. _ Eddie’s palms are slick with sweat and his stomach is churning like stormy seas. He has to tell him.

But, Richie stands up, slinging his bag over his shoulder and stretching the muscles in his legs. Eddie forgot about his shift.  _ Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.  _ He doesn't hear anything else he says, probably an apology for having to go to work and a promise to keep talking after. Before he knows it, Richie’s by a street light feet away. He scrambles to his feet and runs to him.

“Richie,” he breathes. His heart is pounding in his head and throat constricting like a boa. Richie turns around, sensing the urgency in his voice, and stops. He seems a bit surprised to see him so close.  _ Tell him. Tell him! TELL HIM! _

“Yeah?”

“I’m gay,” Eddie says. The sound of Richie’s bag hitting the ground reverberates in his bones and the words are like a choir singing in his skin. “I’m sorry I never said it before. I always knew, I just...I didn’t want to know. That’s why I blew up on you a few months ago. I didn’t want to acknowledge how I felt. But, I—” he pauses, only for a second, “I like you. A lot.” The whole world feels lighter. Each beat of Eddie’s heart gets replaced by the confession. He’s never said it out loud before. But, Richie doesn’t look relieved. He looks conflicted, squeezing his eyes shut to take a deep breath. Upon opening them, he purses his lips. Eddie’s confidence fades  _ fast. _

“Eds, I knew,” he says softly. The world doesn’t feel light anymore.

“What?”

“I’ve known since December,” Richie tries, for a moment, to ignore the horror in Eddie’s doe-eyes. But, he can’t, it eats him alive. “When you apologized to me, you said there was stuff you were working on but couldn’t talk about. Plus, I mean, you kissed me back and the look on your face when you realized what you almost called me was enough of a hint.”

“Oh.”

“Then, I read your paper and you freaked out. I was pretty sure after that, but Valentine’s Day at Bev’s made me think you liked me. I kept waiting for you to say something because I sure as fuck wasn’t gonna make a move and ruin things again.” His hands run through his hair, pushing back the stray curls in his face. Eddie can’t move his body. He knew the whole time. He nearly jumps when he feels Richie put a hand on his shoulder.

“I said something,” Eddie blurts out. Thunder shakes the ground and lightning illuminates the midnight sky. He thinks his hands shake with it. Richie nods, running his tongue over his bottom lip.  _ Nicotine and mojito chapstick. _

“Yeah, you did.” Thunder rumbles again and small drops of rain sparsely start to fall. Eddie’s hands graze against the fabric of Richie’s t-shirt and he leans in close.  _ Nicotine and mojito chapstick. _ But, Richie steps back. Confusion clouds Eddie’s brain until he sees the glassiness of Richie’s eyes, Something in him hurts, but it doesn’t stop him. He pushes through, for one reason or another.

“You said something too late, Eds.”

Then, Richie is gone. And he takes Eddie’s heart with him.

He’s frozen where he stands.  _ Too late. _ Rain baptizes him, washing away all the hope.  _ Too late. _ The skin on his knees and palms rips open when he drops, his stomach empties itself across the gray stone and a sob rips through his throat soon after.  _ Too late. _ He can’t move; more thunder rolls and the rain pours, slapping against the ground and diluting the vomit. Lightning makes the sky glow white and hot, briefly, and then it’s back to the true, deep blue.  _ Too late. Too late. Too late. _ Eddie makes himself stand up on wobbly, bloody knees and realizes he’s crying. His feet drag, barely strong enough to hold him up, but he walks home. Thunder cracks above the clouds and the sky cries with him.


	9. broken red strings and things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I know,” she says, “but your red strings aren’t broken. They’re just knotted up. Things take time and I know it’s a lot, but I don’t think he’ll ever stop loving you.” A small, soft smile tugs at her neon lips and Eddie finds himself wondering if she’s ever known the feeling. He can’t imagine the entire world hasn’t fallen for her yet. Then, the words settle. Red strings. He knows that myth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long y'all, wasn't really feelin' it for a while  
next chapter should be up within the next two days
> 
> [this part's just for me to know i edited this chapter]

**MAY**

_ I need time to think about stuff. _

He keeps reading it over.

_ I need time to figure things out. _

The light of the screen hurts his eyes.

_ I promise we’ll talk about it. _

He can nearly hear it in Richie’s voice.

_ I just need time. _

Things between them are stranger than they’ve ever been. It’s plain avoidance of the issue at hand. There’s an underlying tension with everything they do, but they won’t acknowledge it. They’re talking, things seem somewhat normal, and they hang out but not as frequent as before. The rest of the Losers don’t know how to approach it, so they don’t try. Except for Stan, he can’t even be nice to Richie; every passing glance is a glare and any words shared are strung together with a sharp tongue. Each time he asks the same thing.  _ Why do you still talk to him?  _ And each time Eddie answers the same thing. They’re still friends, maybe it’s stupid or maybe it’s pathetic but he still wants Richie in his life. He seems to feel the same way, if he doesn’t then he hasn’t said much about it.

The tension stays the same, still there and festering, but now there’s no hope behind it. Eddie knows he doesn’t have a chance. The only thing in his head are two words.  _ Too late. Too late. Too late.  _ He doesn’t know what it means. Has Richie moved on? Has he found someone else? Has he given up? He can’t decide what would be the worst-case scenario. Guilt clouds his head either way. He should be happy if Richie’s happy — not jealous, not heartbroken, not upset.

A groan slips past Eddie’s lips as he rolls over and yanks the covers back over his head. He should get up, he knows, but nothing he says can convince himself to do it. He never misses class anyway, what’s one day?

**— messages: Big Bill —**

** _Eds [1:20 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ you busy? _

** _Big Bill [1:20 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ nah _ _   
_ ** _Big Bill [1:20 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ looking for a distraction _ _   
_ ** _Big Bill [1:20 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ you good? _

** _Eds [1:21 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ sorta, not an emergency though. _ _   
_ ** _Eds [1:21 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ if you’re writing i’m not gonna interrupt. _

** _Big Bill [1:22 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ PLEASE interrupt its killing me _ _   
_ ** _Big Bill [1:22 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ i can be there in 10 _

** _Eds [1:23 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ okay but that doesn’t mean you’re off the hook for whatever you’re writing. _ _   
_ ** _Eds [1:23 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ bet Georgie wants to read it. _

** _Big Bill [1:24 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ wow the guilt card huh? _

** _Eds [1:24 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ hells yeah, man. _

Him and Bill have gotten closer since he’s come out, both a little surprised given the unspoken, subtle animosity since November’s incident, but both rolling with it. They get along better than people thought. Bill is restless in the way Eddie is itching to express, abandoned projects and spurs of the moment he craves. Eddie is cautious in the way Bill’s been told to be all his life, minutes taken to think things over and back-up plans multiplying with every movement. It’s a balance of sorts. Some nights, though, they’re the catalysts the other needs; where Eddie gets the nerve to let loose and Bill wants to be destructive, they can reign a hell upon the earth.

Hell feels too heavy to hold today, even to cast down on the rest of the world, but Eddie gets out of bed anyway. His muscles ache with every step down the stairs and they ache when Bill pushes through the doors and hugs him. The rain drips from his hair onto his skin, but he doesn’t mind. He hasn’t been outside for a couple of days.

“Huh-how are you, Eddie?” His lips brush against the skin of his neck, only for a moment, before he pulls away. 

“Fine, I guess.” They find the desk to check him in. It doesn’t take long, they’re waiting for the elevator in seconds. Lightning lights up the floor for brief moments. The pins on Bill’s bag reflect it.

“I know yuh-you’re down because of Ruh-Richie.” Bill doesn’t meet his gaze, gray-blue eyes stuck on the numbers that slowly creep down. There’s white light flashing again.

“Am I seriously that obvious?” The doors finally open, they’re stuck with dinging sounds and lurches of gears. Eddie tries not to let the anxiety of a closed space swallow him whole. A small, sad smile pulls on Bill’s lips.

“You’ve al-always been obvious. You tuh-two should’ve guh-gotten together after Hah-Halloween.”

“As I recall,  _ you  _ were getting together on Halloween,” Eddie says, grabbing the key to the room when the elevator reaches his floor. He thinks it might be the first time anyone besides Stan, Mike, or Richie has stepped foot in there — maybe not even Mike, he can’t remember.

“Don’t re-remind me.” Bill makes himself at home in one of the beanbags anyway, shrugging his bag off his shoulder and grabbing his sticker-covered laptop from it. They don’t talk much after; Eddie watches cooking shows and Bill types away for his newest short story. Thunder rumbles outside and rain thwacks against the window, the occasional train horn blares, distant from across campus. It’s not hard to lose himself when he’s with Bill — it’s not hard for anyone. Everything feels enhanced, he’s like a stronger pull of gravity.

“What’s this one about?” he asks, only getting the screen pushed toward him in response. Chances are it’s a horror story, he started with those because it’s the genre Georgie likes most and, as it turned out, he has a knack for it. Eddie’s favorite one is about a cosmic entity that feeds on fear and flesh; it got published in the school paper and he looked over his shoulder for a week after reading it. Sometimes, if he thinks too much about it at night, he can’t sleep.

“Duh-different genre than, uh, than normal,” he says, attention turning to the TV as Eddie reads. He knows, a heartbeat after reaching the end, what it’s about.  _ Beverly. _

“It’s great, man. She’d love it too.” He can see the near-instant, furious blushing red across Bill’s cheeks. They haven’t talked about stuff like this before. It isn’t like they can’t; they both notice the little things, how Eddie’s the most energetic when Richie’s around and how Bill, despite the words boiling in his soul, can never seem to find them when by Beverly’s side.

“She’s nuh-not gonna see it.”

“Why?” Eddie hands him the laptop and ignores the sigh slipping past Bill’s lips.

“Sh-she probably duh-doesn’t feel th-the same.”

“You know, that’s exactly why me and Rich are all fucked up right now. But, I wouldn’t take any love advice from me anyway.” He pulls his knees to his chest and lets his head flop against the beanbag’s fabric. It dawns on him, not really for the first time, that Bill is gorgeous. Dark, auburn hair falling in choppy layers against his forehead and stern features with the ability to make hearts race; he wonders if girls throw themselves at him during parties or if he gets a slew of numbers given to him every day. The leftover, untouched rainwater slithering down the curves of his cheekbones shines with the fairy lights on his ceiling.

“You huh-have time to fuh-fix it.” Bill tries to sound genuine. In truth, he doesn’t know. Richie refuses to talk about it, which is an incredibly Richie thing to do but never to him or Beverly and, yet, he’s shut them both out too.

“No,” Eddie says, “I just...I guess I don’t understand. He told me it was too late and now he doesn’t want to say anything about it at all, but before that we were making out in his bedroom. I can never figure him out.” He doesn’t know if  _ anyone  _ can figure Richie out. It’s not like he hasn’t tried, from all perspectives too; maybe he’s sick of waiting for Eddie to sort his shit out, maybe he’s decided he deserves better, maybe he doesn’t want a relationship at all until his mental state is better. But, who can say? Not Richie, apparently.

“You’ve fuh-figured him ow-out better th-than you think. But, he kuh-kissed you an-and got harshly re-rejected—”

“Gee, thanks. That makes me feel fantastic.” Eddie frowns, watching the way Bill’s eyes damn near roll out of his head.

“I’m juh-just saying, he thuh-tried to muh-move on when he th-thought you were struh-straight and huh-had trouble.” If he notices the flinching pain in Eddie’s face, he doesn’t let on. Bill remembers Richie’s attempts to move on because he remembers the friction it caused between them. Nights of socks on door knobs and rock music, he remembers the explosion of anger when he told Richie to be careful and moments where flings would end in disaster when he’d said Eddie’s name instead of the guy he was with. But, he doesn’t tell him that.

“Then he truh-tries to get buh-back out th-there and you suh-suddenly make out wuh-with him and tuh-tell him you’re guh-gay.”

“I know what I did.” Eddie’s arms fold across his chest.

“It juh-just wasn’t ruh-really fair to as-assume he’d wait f-for you.” Eddie remembers Beverly saying the same thing. And he knows, he really does, but all the same…

“I thought he liked me.” His voice is soft and hurt.

“I know,” Bill frowns, “I th-think he still does. I’m suh-sorry.”

“So am I.” There’s something else in the words, at least he tries to get it across.  _ I’ll figure it out.  _ He suddenly understands where Richie’s coming from with the texts he sent earlier. “What do you do? You know, when it’s too much with Bev. I see the way you look at her.” Bill’s muscles tense up and his Adam’s apple bobs. Maybe there’s a reason he doesn’t talk about it.

“How do I luh-look at her?”

“The same way she looks at you.” And, in his head, Eddie thinks:  _ the same way I look at Richie. _

★★★

**— messages: CALCIUM CREW —**

** _Eds [3:32 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ who’s free for a movie? _

** _Trashmouth [3:32 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ I am _

** _Eds [3:33 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ not you. _

** _Trashmouth [3:34 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ [ImOffended.img] _

** _Mikey [3:35 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Trouble in paradise? _ _   
_ _ And, sorry, I’m booked up. _

** _Eds [3:36 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ is it not believable i don’t wanna be annoyed while _ _   
_ _ watching something today? _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [3:37 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ .....busy _ _   
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [3:37 PM]: _ ** ** _   
_ ** _ and you’ve learned how to ignore that Richie annoys _ _   
_ _ everyone at the movies _

** _Baberly [3:39 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Eddie, i’ll quit my job and hang out rn if you can be my _ _   
_ _ sugar daddy _

** _Eds [3:39 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ as much as i’d love to Bev, there are 2 problems _ _   
_ ** _Eds [3:40 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ 1\. i’m broke. _ _   
_ ** _Eds [3:40 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ 2\. i’m gay. _

** _Big Bill [3:40 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ all of us are broke bev _ _   
_ ** _Big Bill [3:41 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ otherwise im pretty sure richie wouldve been your  _ _   
_ _ sugar daddy in a heartbeat _

** _Trashmouth [3:42 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ More like you would’ve _

** _Eds [3:43 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ i’d be Bev’s sugar daddy without sugar. _

** _Haystack [3:44 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ I’m busy and broke too but same. _

** _Mikey [3:45 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ #giveBeverlymoney _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [3:46 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ #giveMEmoney _ _   
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [3:46 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ i’d be her sugar daddy too though _ _   
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [3:46 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Bev deserves the world _

** _Eds [3:47 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ we can ALL be Bev’s sugar daddies. _ _   
_ ** _Eds [3:47 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ who she gets sugar from is a matter of who’s not gay. _

** _Baberly [3:49 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ i think half of you are gay _ _   
_ ** _Baberly [3:49 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ GAY CHECK _

** _Eds [3:49 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ me. _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [3:50 PM]: _ ** ** _   
_ ** _ me _

** _Trashmouth [3:50 PM]: _ ** ** _   
_ ** _ ME!!!!!!! _

** _Mikey [3:51 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Sorta. _

** _Eds [3:53 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ oh shit she’s right. _

** _Baberly [3:54 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ that’s four out of seven _ _   
_ ** _Baberly [3:54 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ half-ish? _ _   
_ ** _Baberly [3:54 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ idk what i am tho so _

** _Trashmouth [3:55 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ I don’t think Bill does either _

** _Big Bill [3:56 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ beep beep richie _ _   
_ ** _Big Bill [3:56 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ tried that and didnt care for it _

** _Eds [3:59 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ i mean,, _ _   
_ ** _Eds [3:59 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ you drunk-kissed Richie so maybe try again? _

** _Big Bill [4:00 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ everyones kissed richie _

** _Trashmouth [4:00 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Hey, I’m a great kisser _

** _Haystack [4:01 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ So great you made Bill straight. _

** _Eds [4:02 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ that should be his slogan. _

** _Trashmouth [4:04 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ F u c k o f f _ _   
_ ** _Trashmouth [4:04 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Bill is a lost cause _ _   
_ ** _Trashmouth [4:04 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Too smitten with someone else to realize the power of _ _   
_ _ cock _

** _Eds [4:04 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ jfc. _

** _Baberly [4:05 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Bill has a point _ _   
_ ** _Baberly [4:05 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ everyone HAS kissed Richie _ _   
_ ** _Baberly [4:05 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ good god, the boy gets around _

** _Trashmouth [4:07 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ I’m giving you a pass because of that wonderful _ _   
_ _ Footloose reference _ _   
_ ** _Trashmouth [4:07 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Not my fault all y’all are thirsty for me _

** _Eds [4:08 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ you wish. _

** _Haystack [4:09 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ I think the amount of Losers Richie’s kissed are higher _ _   
_ _ than the amount of us who’re are gay. _

** _Baberly [4:10 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ WHO’S KISSED RICHIE CHECK _

** _Eds [4:10 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ me. _

** _Big Bill [4:11 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ me _

** _Baberly [4:12 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ same _

** _Eds [4:12 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ wait what??? _

** _Big Bill [4:13 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ i second that _

** _Haystack [4:13 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ I third that. _

** _Trashmouth [4:15 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ I wasn’t kidding about that whole “making love on the _ _   
_ _ kitchen counter” thing _

** _Eds [4:17 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ there’s no fuckin way. _

** _Baberly [4:18 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ fuck off trashmouth _ _   
_ ** _Baberly [4:18 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ it wasn’t the counter _

** _Big Bill [4:19 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ W H A T _

** _Haystack [4:20 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ BIGGER WHAT _

** _Eds [4:22 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** ** _*_ ** _ WHAT* _

** _Trashmouth [4:23 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ I just wanted to know if I liked it and Bev is a really _ _   
_ _ great friend _

** _Baberly [4:24 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ i'm the best friend ever _

** _Eds [4:24 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ and? _

** _Trashmouth [4:25 PM]: _ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Oh it was like _ _   
_ ** _Trashmouth [4:25 PM]: _ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Two years ago _ _   
_ ** _Trashmouth [4:25 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ And I didn’t like it _ _   
_ ** _Trashmouth [4:25 PM]: _ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Bev’s lovely I just like dick _

** _Haystack [4:27 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ I don’t know how to process any of that. _

** _Eds [4:28 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ i think i’m traumatized. _

** _Baberly [4:29 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ that makes two of us _

** _Trashmouth [4:30 PM]: _ ** ** _   
_ ** _ HEY _

** _Big Bill [4:30 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ #richieislameinthesack _

** _Trashmouth [4:31 PM]: _ ** ** _   
_ ** _ We are not doing this _

** _Eds [4:32 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ #richieislameinthesack _

** _Haystack [4:33 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ #richieislameinthesack _

** _Baberly [4:34 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ #richieislameinthesack _

** _Trashmouth [4:34 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ R U D E _

** _Baberly [4:36 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ honey i’m sure that it’s better when you know what _ _   
_ _ you’re doing _ _   
_ ** _Baberly [4:36 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ girls just aren’t your forte _

** _Eds [4:37 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ FROM THE WOMAN HERSELF _

** _Trashmouth [4:39 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Too late I have to redeem myself _ _   
_ ** _Trashmouth [4:39 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ I’m fucking all of you tonight _ _   
_ ** _Trashmouth [4:39 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ And it’s gonna be fucking magnificent _ _   
_ ** _Trashmouth [4:39 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Say goodbye to any crushes you had before because _ _   
_ _ from now on you’re all gonna have the hots for me _

** _Baberly [4:40 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ okay so that’ll mean ALL of us will have had sex with _ _   
_ _ Richie _ _   
_ ** _Baberly [4:40 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ which beats the four who are gay and the three who _ _   
_ _ kissed him _

** _Eds [4:41 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ no i think that’s 4 too _

** _Baberly [4:41 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ me, you, and Bill?? _

** _Eds [4:42 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ ? did Stan not also drunk-kiss Richie?? _

** _Baberly [4:43 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ oh fuck you’re right _ _   
_ ** _Baberly [4:43 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ he didn’t answer _

** _Big Bill [4:44 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ he hasnt for a while _

** _Haystack [4:45 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Neither has Mike……… _

** _Eds [4:46 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ those shitheads they said they were busy wtf _

** _Big Bill [4:47 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ oh god here it comes _

** _Trashmouth [4:47 PM]: _ ** ** _   
_ ** _ They ARE busy, Eds _

** _Big Bill [4:47 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ i knew it _

** _Trashmouth [4:47 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ They’re Getting Busy _

** _Big Bill [4:47 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ why have i been forsaken _

** _Eds [4:48 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ it’s just our curse in life to have him. _

** _Haystack [4:49 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Yeah but we love him. _ _   
_ ** _Haystack [4:49 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Who else is gonna make jokes about their dick all the _ _   
_ _ time? _

** _Eds [4:50 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ oh my god wait Bev. _

** _Baberly [4:50 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ what?? _

** _Eds [4:51 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ you’re the only one who can disprove him. _

** _Big Bill [4:51 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ no ive seen his dick too _

** _Haystack [4:52 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Jesus. Maybe I’m wrong. _ _   
_ ** _Haystack [4:52 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ We’re all cursed. _

** _Eds [4:54 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ well one of you can. PLEASE. _

** _Trashmouth [4:55 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ :) _ _   
_ ** _Trashmouth [4:55 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Why haven’t they then, Eddie Spaghetti? _

** _Eds [4:56 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ no. _ _   
_ ** _Eds [4:56 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Bev. _ _   
_ ** _Eds [4:56 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Bill. _ _   
_ ** _Eds [4:56 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ one of you. _

** _Big Bill [4:57 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ sorry _

** _Trashmouth [4:58 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ :) _

** _Baberly [5:00 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ the dick jokes are warranted i’m afraid _

** _Trashmouth [5:00 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ :) _ _   
_ ** _Trashmouth [5:00 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ :) _

** _Eds [5:03 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ fuck off i don’t believe you. _

** _Trashmouth [5:04 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ :) _ _   
_ ** _Trashmouth [5:04 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ :) _ _   
_ ** _Trashmouth [5:04 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ :) _

** _Eds [5:06 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ he’s just bribing you to say it. _

** _Trashmouth [5:07 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ We’ve established we’re all broke _

** _Big Bill [5:10 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ you dont always need money for bribes _

** _Trashmouth [5:10 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ ;) _

** _Eds [5:11 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ gross. _

** _Baberly [5:12 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ you’re right, Eddie _ _   
_ ** _Baberly [5:12 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Mike and Stan aren’t actually fucking _ _   
_ ** _Baberly [5:12 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ they’re holding me and Bill hostage _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [5:14 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ YOU FUCKHEADS  _ _   
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [5:14 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ WE’RE WATCHING A MOVIE _

** _Mikey [5:15 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ We are now, at least. _

★★★

Beverly steals the entire show. She moves most of the audience to tears, even Eddie and he can’t fucking stand this play — it always reminded him of his mother.  _ Oh the irony of someone being driven mad from another’s abuse,  _ he thinks,  _ how she loves the ending when they’re hospitalized for good.  _ He endured it for Richie and Beverly anyway.

Once the curtain closes and the lights turn on, Eddie’s maneuvering his way through the crowd and walking toward the side door until he feels a hand grab his shoulder. He turns to see Ren smiling at him, hair now bright blue and lips painted the same color; Maggie and Went aren’t far behind, greeting him with hugs and handshakes. He’d almost forgot he told them when the show was.

They ask how he is and if he can tell Richie they’re here. He answers it all and hopes they don’t realize he’s off, adding an item on his to-do list of  _ find Richie backstage.  _ He’s been feeling off for a while, still left with radio-silence about Richie’s text. If his parents do notice, they don’t say anything. Ren, however, does.

“I’m gonna steal you for a second, Eddie,” she says, her silver voice seems to cut through the noise of the lingering audience. She wraps her hands around his arm and he takes the hint, offering it for her while she weaves them between people and to the edge of the room; it gives off a slightly more private feeling with enough space to spread out farther than just two feet. There’s a shine in her eyes from the spotlight, or maybe because she sees the shirt hanging off Eddie’s shoulders and realizes it’s her brother’s.

“Are you ok—” Eddie’s words get cut off when Ren throws her arms around him and squeezes tight as ever. The floral scent of her perfume floods his senses and her hair almost gets caught in his mouth; he’s not used to hugging someone shorter than him. He’s about to ask again before he feels her sigh, breath warm against his neck.

“I heard about everything. I can’t thank you enough for being there for him.” She doesn’t let go. If anything, she hugs him tighter. Eddie thinks his legs might be shaking but Ren keeps him steady. “And I’m really proud of you for coming out.”

“Thanks.” He hopes it comes out loud enough, feeling her arms slowly slink back down to her sides and his muscles almost ache at the loss of pressure.

“He’ll figure shit out, you know.”

“Ren,” Eddie warns, voice taut and thin. He doesn’t know if he can handle talking about it right now. To say emotions will run high is an understatement and here is not the place to delve into them.

“I know,” she says, “but your red strings aren’t broken. They’re just knotted up. Things take time and I know it’s a lot, but I don’t think he’ll ever stop loving you.” A small, soft smile tugs at her neon lips and Eddie finds himself wondering if she’s ever known the feeling. He can’t imagine the entire world hasn’t fallen for her yet. Then, the words settle.  _ Red strings.  _ He knows that myth.

“I’m not his soulmate,” he says, brain tied up with thoughts of red thread and the sound of scissors snipping it away. Ren just shrugs, rolling her eyes like she doesn’t believe him. She shoves him toward the stage door and mumbles to herself as she walks away.

He goes to find the dressing room, waiting until everyone leaves — until it’s just him and Richie. The lights on the vanity glow like molten gold, buzzing and burning while Richie strips his face of the stage makeup. His curls are unruly and tangled, falling into his eyes every so often no matter how many times he pushes them away. The straps of his tank top slowly slide off his shoulders and a new tattoo sits between his shoulder blades; it’s a skyline, just like the one beyond their secret hill. A pang goes through Eddie’s heart, wondering if that’s why he got it. For a moment, small and fleeting, he stands in the doorway to admire him.

“You were great,” he says, watching Richie’s honey eyes find him through the mirror.

“Oh, hey. Thanks.” He turns back to his reflection, smearing the barely-there eyeliner when he rubs his eyes and grabbing a pile of clothes on the chair next to him. Eddie recognizes the cardigan in a heartbeat — the same one he wore when they met. Deep, rich burgundy. He hasn’t worn it in a while. Richie slips the tank top over his head and starts changing, not caring if it bothers him or not.

“Your family’s waiting for you outside the building.”

“You invited them?” He tries to hide the surprised smile on his face, but it doesn’t work.

“I told ‘em when it was.” The smile disappears with furrowed eyebrows.

“Thanks for letting me know,” Richie mumbles, slipping off the shorts he’s wearing and fumbling to keep the belt in the loops of his jeans as he pulls them up to his hips. Dangerous thoughts go through Eddie’s head, eyes stuck on the trail of dark hair going down his stomach and disappearing beneath the denim. He almost forgets the subtle harshness of Richie’s voice. Almost.

“You told Ren.”

“I tell her everything.”

“I know.” Eddie can feel the tension again. It weighs down each limb and flattens his heart. Weeks of this feeling is too much. He wants, desperately, to talk things out. But, he doesn’t push. He knows how it will end. His knees buckle when Richie looks at him, pulling the cardigan on and shaking his head.

“Got somethin’ on your mind there, Eds?” Richie’s walking a line, so close to snapping and so close to shutting down. He doesn’t know which will come first, if at all. Eddie can tell. He sighs before finally getting his words out.

“No,” he shies from him, “not really.” Richie’s eyes are fire, furious but somehow frightened. It’s been like that for a while. Eddie knows it’ll only take a small push. He doesn’t know if he wants to do it. Richie slings his bag over his shoulder and Eddie knows neither of them have the nerve or the strength to do this now.

“Do you wanna come with me?” The fire dwindles, replaced by a softness he’s missed. “I know they’ve already got a restaurant they’re eyeing and I don’t think I can’t take a whole dinner of them asking why I never said anything.” There’s something else hidden in the words.  _ I want you to come.  _ It’s the only thing making Eddie wary to answer.

“I don’t want to barge in on—”

“They love you and you know it.” Richie takes his hand and pulls him along. Electricity prickles through them both. How long has it been since they did something like this? Weeks, at least. Where greetings used to be tight hugs and quick pecks on the cheek, they’ve become awkward hellos and hesitated movements. Movie nights at Beverly’s are sitting on opposite sides of the couch and midnight hours in the diner have Eddie sitting on Ben’s lap instead of Richie’s. Lightning like this is cherished as they take dark hallways full of twists and turns to make it out of the building. The courtyard is full of people, still talking and still lingering. It’s easy to find Richie’s family because of Ren’s new hair color, Eddie leads the both of them in her direction.

“Holy shit, when’d you do this?” Richie grabs a handful of the electric curls and pulls, earning an annoyed stare once she turns around.

“Last week. I think I might cut it too.” Ren slaps his hand away and pretends to look mad, but smiles when he slips an arm around her waist. They delve into the logistics of it, which style she could get and if she really wants to chop it all off or if she’s just bored. Eddie wonders in that moment why Richie never seems to visit them — or why he lives on campus at all. He’s close enough to drive, not that Boston traffic is particularly glamorous, and he clearly loves to be around his family. The question eats at him until he feels Richie grab his hand again.

“Huh, Eds?” His eyes flicker over to him and slip along the curves of his cheeks. Eddie realizes he hasn’t been listening. Richie realizes too, squeezing his hand and nudging his shoulder. He tries to ignore the way Ren hides her smile when she notices. “Mexican food sound good?”

“Yeah, of course. Wherever you guys wanna go.” So, they go. They pile into Went’s car and drive for a while down back-roads and detours they seem to know already. The restaurant is a house on a corner, Eddie would have walked right past it without even realizing it was a place to eat. It doesn’t take long to get a table, ordering drinks and browsing the menu in no time. He’s sat between Richie and Ren, the spew of back and forth bickering flying right past his ears.

He tries to be present, at least to some degree, but his mind keeps focusing on the absent-minded ways Richie’s knee brushes against his. He knows he shouldn’t, delving into the conversation instead. It’s mostly about Richie and Beverly, how they shined throughout the entire show and how nobody in his family knew he had a gift for acting. It goes on and on, even after the drinks come and their orders are taken. Eddie doesn’t feel entirely there until he hears his name.

“Eddie’s the only reason I even kept the role,” Richie says, taking a sip of sangria and trying to hide the twitch in his lip when he realizes how sweet it is.  _ He hates sweet stuff,  _ Eddie thinks. “That scene with Bev, you know the one, was a total shit show until he helped out. He literally—”

“Eddie, can you come with me for a second? I think I left something in the car.” Ren stands up fast and grabs his hand, leading him through tables and chairs until the cool spring air billows through their clothes. She pulls him down the street and the clacking of her heels echoes. 

“What’s up?” They’ve already passed where the car is parked.

“You looked like you needed some air. Did he talk to you yet?”

“No.”

“Figures,” she mumbles to herself. She stays close to Eddie’s side, their hands swinging back and forth with each step. “Are you two, you know, doing well?”

“I mean…sort of?” His eyes flicker over to her when he hears the click of a lighter. Ren has a blunt with gold rolling paper between her teeth. She offers it to him, stuck between two fingers with sharp nails, when she notices. He takes it. “Things are kind of normal, like before anything happened, but there’s tension. I know he sees it too.” His lungs burn with the inhale, but he doesn’t mind.

“He does. He’s just being stupid.” They keep passing it, it goes quickly between them both and he wonders how long they’ve been walking around the block. “I think he wants to say something, but I dunno if he knows how. Maybe he’s scared and needs a push. That’s just my point of view, though.” Ren shrugs, stomping it out once there’s nothing left.

“Sure it is.” Eddie smiles, opening the door once they get to it and gesturing for her to go first. “I know you two talk about everything.” All she does is grin, looking over her shoulder with a gleam in her dark eyes.

“Me and my big mouth, huh?” She doesn’t say anything else. So, as Eddie sits back down next to Richie and his knee brushes against him again, he knows exactly what he wants to do.

★★★

**Gazebos & Placebos**

**May 30th**

There’s a lot to say and, though I have the time to say it, I don’t think anybody wants to read a twenty-page long post about it all. I’ll try to promise this is going to be short but that might end up being a lie. I don’t want to lie anymore, even if it means being scared instead. I’ve spent the last seven years of my life in fear — afraid of my mother, afraid of disease, afraid of my secrets. I’m used to fear so, technically, it shouldn’t matter to me as much as it does. Desensitivity and all that jazz, you know? I guess it doesn’t work like that.

All I wanted was for the world around me to be submerged in thick, sweet syrup and slow things down. I wanted it to weigh me to the floor and I wanted it to keep me there until I could tell it who I was. I know who I am and I can say it now. I can scream it and spit it back at the world, I’ll keep fighting until it lets me go.

It took so long to get here and, now that I know what it’s like, I can’t believe I didn’t try to get here sooner. That might be unfair to say to my past self, but I bask in this feeling like sunlight. It was always about love, if I’m honest (and I’m trying to be). There was so much love I wanted to give, so much I would’ve done and said if only I was wanted. I didn’t get it from my mother; in her own sick way, I suppose she loves me but I didn’t know then, it’s still hard to know now.

Sometimes warmth rushed over my skin and I thought, for a second, that maybe if I loved the world hard enough then the world could love me too. Wind raced and feet burned against the white-hot concrete but running so far, so fast…I knew it was a finish line I’d never cross. How long could I wait for a world that will never pine for me? I used to wish I wasn’t capable of love at all — a leaden, sickly poison which soaked my heart and mind.

I don’t wish that anymore.

I fell in love with a person, not the world.

Not just a person.

I fell in love with a man. It feels weird for me to say. Not because he’s a man, I don’t care about my sexuality anymore (and, trust me, it took a while to get to that point). It only feels weird to say because he’s my age and I certainly don’t consider myself an adult. But, it’d be weird to say boy because, technically, I’m a man too. 

It doesn’t matter.

I think I love him.

Maybe that’s a stupid thing to say, I’ve never really known what love feels like — at least not any that’s been reciprocated or healthy for me. When I think about love, though, he crosses my mind. It’s not fleeting, he doesn’t scurry past my brain in an instant; he swarms and overwhelms it until I can’t think about anything else. Then, I forced it away because I felt too guilty for looking him in the eyes and lying about it. I hoped I was better at lying than I thought I was, but I’m not and that’s a story for another day.

It’d been like that for a while. Months, I think. Who can ever tell? It feels like I’ve known him my entire life when, really, I met him in September. All I know is almost every day, whether I’m in bed wrapped up with blankets or walking to class or doing laundry, I think about how it’d be if he were by my side — even when he actually is and he’s actually doing these things (we don’t exactly have boundaries).

I think about his fingers running through my hair, playing with it while I fall asleep. I think about his hand clasping mine while the leaves or snow fall on our path. I think about his arms around me, keeping me close with the constant flickering of light from our favorite crime show, the one we barely watch because he’s too busy doing voice impressions over the muted sound and I’m too busy predicting the outcome of the case. I think about laying my head on his chest and hearing his heartbeat, how the sound never fails to lull me to sleep. I think about seeing him smile across a table at the diner, laughing at his own horrible joke while I pretend I didn’t like it but we both know I think he’s the funniest person I’ve ever met and ever will meet.

I never stop thinking of him.

I used to want it to stop. I wished, more than anything, that I could have made it stop. He’s my best friend. Why was the universe cruel? I was so fucking scared. I was scared I’d found my soulmate and I’d only ever get to be his friend. Please, don’t get me wrong, I love being his friend. I love having him in my life. I adore every second with him and every word he says to me (even when I act like I don’t).

I was worried I’d never connect with someone the way I do with him. I was worried I’d spend my days wanting something I’d never get. After everything I’ve experienced, it wouldn’t surprise me at all. I’d thought I taught my heart to not want things it couldn’t have a long time ago — turns out I was wrong. I’m happy I’m wrong.

Loving him feels like riding a rollercoaster on Morey’s Piers. Not that I’d know, the piers were closed when we stayed for spring break. I still think it sounds right. He told me about his favorite one (the one him and his sister go on about sixty times in a row or until they puke) and promised we’d ride it some day. It looks like a deathtrap, maybe that’s the hypochondriac in me, but it still sounds right. Loving him feels like what I imagine it would.

It’s terrifying and exhilarating and I can’t get enough of it.

I don’t think my heart can ever slow down around him. It almost beats and pounds in my chest like a barrage of punches. I haven’t known safety like that in a long time. Has my soul ever flown so far, so fast? Like the legs carrying me with every “what if” to those daydreams? I’m not sure. I don’t think it has, maybe I’m just biased.

Showing one of our friends The Departed (as is our Leo-loving obligation) and crammed together on the couch like clothes stuffed into a suitcase, it made my heart run wild. It wasn’t a lot to him, or anyone really, because it was just a movement to pay no mind. It meant everything to me. My veins twisted and curled when I thought about it, daring myself to do something. I was in my own head.

No one spared a glance when I gave myself this should-be-small yet terrifyingly gigantic instance where my head laid on his shoulder and my hand rested on his wrist, hardly focusing on anything besides the way my heart swelled and shrunk. Nothing could have made me feel sad or unsafe when he was there, when his honey eyes found my face and went back to the screen like I’d done this a million times before (and I had). We do stuff like that all the time, it was nothing new.

But, I wanted nothing more than for him to grab me and kiss me. The room just ours and patterning colors a framework for the way my heart could race so much faster, near bursting from my chest by breaking ribs from the inside out. It’d only take that warmth, a hand placed on my cheek or an arm lazily thrown around my waist, for me to be his. Maybe not even that. 

There was a moment, bittersweet and fleeting, where I looked up at him. The light flickered across his face and there was an  _ almost. _ I almost kissed him, like it was a reflex engraved into my bones (we’d done that before too, but that’s also another story for another day). It scared me, how strong those feelings were. It still does — as if there’s a version of this universe where kissing him was something I’d done a lot, something familiar, and it hurt to realize living in it wasn’t real.

I had been trying so hard. God, it sounds far from it, but I had. I always tried to ignore it, to reject it, once to embrace it — none of that ever helped. I still love him. I still loved him and I knew it would only give me more of that aching. How could I make it go away? How could I stop my heart from clinging to this man it can never give itself to?

It hurt me, bones cracked and muscles stiffened and lungs felt flooded with water. A soul can be weighed down and never let itself go from the anchor that rusted itself into its skin. I know, one day, my mind won’t wander to a slammed car door or how tightly he hugged me, to the adrenaline when we sat in a parking lot, to the intoxication when he cooked and danced as if no one else were there. 

I wished that day was now. I wished I could melt these wants from myself and watch them dissipate on the street until loving him felt nauseating. I’d tried to burn it out and I’ve tried to drown it out and I’ve tried to starve it out. Sometimes, it came back stronger. Sometimes, I thought it’d finally died. It was dead for a minute, then our laughter filled up the room again and my heart whispered:  _ I belong to him.  _ I think my heart will whisper that for a long time.

How much longer could I have lied to myself and pretended this wasn’t suffocating me? Whenever it reared its ugly head, I acted like it could be worse when I wanted nothing more than to love somebody — anybody — else. Everyone says time is the answer. Time will heal. Time will help. Time will make me forget. Could I forget if, metaphorically, it’s been years? Could I ever heal if every reminder I’m unwanted felt like a knife’s seering sing into my skin?

I was breaking, dear reader. I didn’t know how strong I could be. He laid his head on my shoulder and the world stopped. I never wanted time to slow down until the car door shut and he could barely greet me fast enough. I never felt bulletproof until he had his arms around me and whispered he was going to miss me. I never wanted to be his so badly. I still love him and I no longer wish I didn’t. I no longer wish I didn’t wonder how safe I’d feel if I fell asleep to the soft, steady sound of his heartbeat. I no longer wish I didn’t yearn to know what it’d be like to feel his fingers comb through the waves of my hair.

God, I’m scared. I love him and I’m scared.

I love him and it fills me up to a bubbling, boiling brim.

Have you ever loved someone so much it almost hurt? Because you look at them, in the midst of laughter flooding the room, and you realize there isn’t anything you wouldn’t do for them? It’s a strange feeling. It overwhelms you until there’s nothing left for you to do but feel it engulf your soul. I’ve never felt anything like it. Sometimes there aren’t enough words at my disposal to describe it. I have all these stupid fucking metaphors I make up for things in the hopes it can make somebody understand, maybe I’ll try it this time too. He’s always been better with words than I am. He turns words into art. But, I’ll still try.

When I look at him, I’m home. In those moments when we’re on the couch, smiling too hard to talk right and trying to say our jokes faster than the other, I can’t believe how the rest of the world melts away — nothing ever matters but us.

We get into discussions about video games and practically yell at each other to read those certain books just too good to not talk about together (he’s turning me into somewhat of a bookworm, I guess that’s the literature-loving-and-minoring part of him). We make ridiculous plans to drop out of school and go off the grid to avoid all our debt, how we can just be hitchhikers and travel across the country forever. He has no idea how much all of it means to me. Maybe he does. But, I’ve never told him.

No one has ever understood me before, not so perfectly. I drone on and on about this book he got me to read, urging you all to read it because it’s my favorite book now and I want you all to know the glee of reaching this quote (even if the beginning can feel pretty slow and even if it’s really dark)

“Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood.”

He makes me feel like I’m not the odd one out. Others understand too, but he’s the only one who can look at me and know. I’ve never had that before.

All of this? This is why I’m scared. I’m scared I’ve found a soulmate in him. Those words are so big and so heavy, I might abandon them in the future but not today. And, god, don’t take this the wrong way because I am so fucking grateful he’s my best friend; there is never a moment I don’t thank the universe for giving me a saving grace as tremendous as being his friend, I wouldn’t trade it for the world. 

But, I’m scared nonetheless. How do you move on from finding a soulmate who doesn’t want you when their name has carved itself deep in your heart? More than that, how do you move on from finding a soulmate who might’ve wanted you before and you were too scared to tell him you wanted him too? I don’t know what to do about any of it.

But, here I am. I’m in love with my best friend and it sounds like such a gay cliché. I’m scared of not having him in my life. Even if he hated me, at least he’d be there. But, I have to say, being hated hurts too.

I don’t know what’s going to happen next or what I’m going to do. Maybe I’ll keep doing nothing, it’s worked out for the past couple of weeks. Maybe I’ll keep saying what I want to say to him here. Maybe I’ll grow a pair and tell him this in person (doubt it, but we can pretend). I don’t know what I’ll do, but that’s okay.

For now, dear reader, just know you’re loved. Not just by me. The world may be cold right now but you’ll forever have people ready to be your sun until you’re strong enough to do it yourself. You will always be loved.

Guaran-fucking-teed,  
Eds (I quite like the name now (I always have))


	10. i think it might be progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’m just tired. I don’t want anything to be fucked up if I can help it. Things are already too fucked up.” The hold on Eddie’s hand tightens. The wind pushes the curls from Richie’s face and the sun is lower in the sky, now a dull purple.
> 
> “Okay,” Eddie breathes, the tension in his shoulders dissolving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i got too excited to wait to write and post this so surprise!!! two updates in one night. it's supposed to be a lil shorter than the rest of them, sorta like a mini-chapter for the halfway point. also HOLY FUCK we're at the halfway point!!!!!
> 
> [this part's just for me to know i edited this chapter]

**JUNE**

“Dude, this final is gonna fucking suck,” Eddie says, frowning and flipping through his notes. Stan is going through his markers, trying to decide which colors he wants to use for his drawings; he asked Eddie to get a white cast after he broke his arm last week. The only saving grace for that god awful experience is seeing the word LOSER in big, black letters, surrounded by doodles of birds and flowers. All of Stan’s free time since finishing his finals has been devoted to making the cast look like a work of art.

“You’ll kill it like you always do,” he says, finally deciding on a bright blue.

“I’m stuck sitting next to Richie the whole time.”

“So?”

“So, I don’t know if he read the thing I posted. I’m gonna be on edge the whole time.” Eddie keeps going through the pages of his notebook. He isn’t worried about the actual information, because he knows it. He’s worried about  _ him. _ They haven’t gotten the chance to see each other since he posted the confession piece.

“As if you’re not always on edge anyway.”

“Fuck off, man. I’m serious. My last appointment with Cara was all about this shit.”

“I know you’re serious.” Stan switches to dark green, shading the stalk of a sunflower curling around his wrist. They hope the beauty of it will distract Eddie’s mom when he’s stuck at home for the summer. The idea fills them with dread. “Don’t you know he’d wait ‘till after to say something? I mean, I don’t think he wants to screw you over.”

“That’s the problem! I won’t know either way. It’s all I’ll be able to think about.” Maybe the post is a bad idea. He’s been going every which way on it the entire time, even though Ren texted him to say how amazing it was after she read it. She thinks it’ll work, but he and Richie haven’t been able to talk much since Finals Week started. He knows he shouldn’t be so worked up over the inevitable. But, the conversation itself isn’t the problem — it’s the aftermath and all the differences it could make.

“I’m sure he hasn’t read it.” Stan’s eyebrows furrow when he looks at the uncolored cardinal, as if annoyed he missed it. “If I were him, I sure as fuck wouldn’t wait to bring it up. I think if Mike wrote something like  _ that _ about me, I’d go to wherever he is and we’d fuck right on the spot. Literally wherever.” Eddie rolls his eyes and slaps the notebook shut.

“You’d do it if he bought you a bag of gummy worms too.”

“Is that not on the same level as a giant, poetic confession of love? Richie buys you milkshakes all the time.”

“I’d never fuck him for getting me a milkshake,” Eddie huffs, grabbing his bag from the floor and stuffing the notebook back inside. His alarm will go off any second. He can feel Stan staring at him. “What?”

“Just witnessing a worldly phenomenon. Your pants didn’t burst into flames just now, I think I better call The Boston Globe.” A shit-eating grin blooms across his face and Eddie throws a pillow at him. Sure enough, the alarm on his phone blares and tells him to haul ass for the final. He slings the bag over his shoulder, shoves his phone in his pocket, and heads out the door. Stan yells a  _ good luck _ but Eddie can’t make it out upon shoving his headphones in his ears.

The heat hits him hard once he steps outside; humid, thick air he wades through like water and rays of sun beating down on his head. His mind can’t stop. It’s all  _ Richie Richie Richie. _ Does he know? What will he say when he reads it? Will he say anything at all? Eddie’s nearly given up on the idea of them talking things out. If anything, publishing the column piece for all the world to see makes it worse. It’s a documentation of things meant to be left unspoken.

His stomach lurches when he sees Richie already in his seat, taking a pen apart and putting it back together. Neither of them say a word to each other, gazes firing back and forth the entire time their professor passes out the exam. The entire hour and a half is agony. Between carefully pouring over each question and feeling Richie’s eyes on him between flipping papers and scribbled words. It isn’t surprising when he’s done first, handing his packet in and gathering up his stuff when Eddie finally gets to the last page. Richie leans over, red Sharpie in hand, and draws a V over the S in the LOSER on his cast before slipping out the door.

Eddie runs his fingers over the letter for the rest of the walk to his dorm, unable to find him after leaving the room and eventually giving up. He keeps his phone on ring, waiting for any word from him but doesn’t get one. Frustration takes over and he finds himself at their secret spot. The sun is slowly slipping behind the tall buildings and the sky is orange. Wind blows and his phone cuts the silence.

**— messages: Trashmouth (2) —**

** _Trashmouth [6:36 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ Hey, Eds _ _   
_ ** _Trashmouth [6:36 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ Can we talk? _

** _Eds [6:37 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ of course _

“Thank fuckin’ god," Richie says. The sound of his voice from behind Eddie makes him jump. He raises an eyebrow, hoping the smile doesn’t come as easily when Richie sits down beside him. It still does. “I don’t know how to say any of this and it’s gonna be really hard for me, but you're important to me and I want things to be okay so let's just sit and talk this out.” There’s no space between his words, shooting out from his mouth a mile a minute and jumbled like fishing line. All Eddie can do is nod, still watching the skyline. He finally makes himself look at him. Richie’s serious in a way he’s never seen before.

“It’s okay. Take your time.” Eddie keeps his voice soft, seeing how Richie’s hands are clenched into fists, knuckles turning white and veins protruding in a bold outline made of skin. Some of the hastily-done tattoos look stretched and he knows, realistically, there are new ones somewhere on his body. He tries not to think of where they or how he’d want to find them.

“I don’t like talking about how I feel because I’m scared of getting hurt. I know I do it and I know it’s not healthy, I’ve been trying to work on it.” His words are still fast and tangled. Eddie squeezes his hand, a reminder to slow down and breathe. A small, fleeting smile finds his lips before he sighs. “I’m gonna ramble a lot first, I just need to get it all out or my shit brain will jump to another topic without finishing the first one. Is that okay?”

“Of course,” Eddie says, voice still gentle. Richie sighs again.

“I didn’t know how bad your mom was. I mean, I had an idea. Any time she’d call or someone would mention her, you got a look on your face I could never explain. I knew she was—do you use that word to describe it?” He stops, glancing over at him for confirmation, but doesn’t give him the time to answer.

“I just didn’t know what any of it was about, you know? I assumed things when I shouldn’t have,” he admits, “I thought things were overly complicated for no reason but you were trying to figure shit out. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair for me to still hang onto what you said in November when I said I was over it either.”

“I know, but I don’t blame you for any of it.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Well, I don’t.” Eddie doesn’t relent. Silence hangs there for a moment, spliced only by the usual sounds of distant footsteps, traffic, and trains. He remembers the tendency Richie has to drift from topic to topic, the one he was warned of, and tries to fix the detour without saying anything. A quick, expectant glance is all it takes to remind Richie he had more he wanted to say.

“I’m worried how much I bottle things up makes you feel like you don’t know me as well as you should,” he says. It stuns him, slightly, because he hadn’t thought that at all. Sometimes, sure, but he knows him better than he knows anyone else. “So, I’m scared I’m not funny enough to do stand-up. My favorite movie is actually Casablanca, not Jurassic Park — I just wanted to seem cool when you asked me before.” Richie keeps going, not daring to look at Eddie for reactions to any of the information. There’s only going to be more.

“I still think about how I must’ve traumatized Ren when I tried to kill myself and I can never find a way to apologize for doing that to her. My favorite holiday is Thanksgiving because I really fucking love my family and my mom’s cooking isn’t bad, I’m just an asshole sometimes and I’m worried no amount of trying will change it because it hasn’t changed before. I feel guilty telling my parents I’m not religious because they still go to church every Sunday,”

“I’m extremely allergic to poison ivy, one time I went camping and I got it — my entire fucking face swelled up like a balloon and I had to go to the ER. My favorite song is Everything Will Be Alright by The Killers and no matter how many times I listen to it, I always cry. My favorite kind of gum is the blue raspberry Hubba Bubba because you showed it to me. I’m mean when I’m angry and I wish I could control it better,”

“I think I’d be a dandelion if I were a flower. I worry quite a bit that I'm a shitty person. I like my coffee with more milk than coffee but I think you knew that already. The last time I cried was literally like three hours ago. I’m way more competitive than I look and you should never play board games with me. I have a horrible fear of spiders, small spaces, and heights. I want to be happy. I am not happy yet and I’m scared I never will be,”

“I sometimes become painfully aware I’m never going to have a normal young person experience and it really fucking bothers me. I know I shouldn’t want normal and ‘normal is boring’ and whatever. But, I want just one moment where I can be like everybody else and not be terrified, where I can have someone who likes me for me, and where I can feel wanted by the people around me. I don’t always feel like I have that,”

“I’m gonna turn twenty-two next year and what do I have to show for my experiences during the ‘best years of my life’ compared to everyone else? I was a goddamn train wreck who slept around to repress the feeling of how badly I wanted to be loved and wasted my time being sad instead of doing anything productive.” There’s something in his eyes. Not quite fear, at least not on its own. Eddie doesn’t know if he’s ever seen the emotion before, not just in Richie but in anyone. He can’t figure it out and, briefly, Richie pauses. He catches his breath, heart beating fast both for what he’s about to say and how fast he’d said everything else.

Before the words are said, they know they’re going to be the kind unable to be taken back.

“I fell in love with you,” Richie admits. His voice is indiscernible, broken but also accepting; he knows it’s true, he’d fallen for Eddie during moments of hushed laughter and stolen glances, but he knows it’d broken him at the same time.

Every instance where their hands brushed against each other while they walked down the paths or how his cheeks would heat up when he realized how close Eddie’s lips were to his, it consumes him during the rough patches. He didn’t know how far he’d fallen until he realized he was already hopeless. Eddie feels like he can’t breathe; if there’s ever a time for an inhaler prescribed for fake-asthma, it’s now. The air in his lungs turns to solid ice.

“I said it was too late because I was scared of getting my heart broken again but it isn’t too late because I can’t fucking get over you,” he says. Neither of them is quite sure if he  _ wants  _ to get over him. At one time, he did. But, now?

“Richie…”

“If you said you wanted me, I’d give myself to you. Maybe that’s pathetic or it sounds like I have low self-esteem, and I do, okay? I act so much more confident than I really am but it doesn’t fucking matter right now because it’s  _ you.” _ His voice slams into Eddie like a speeding car against a telephone pole. Broken glass and blinking headlights and steaming engines. He feels like the telephone pole, bent and slanted from the force, ready to hit the ground at any second. Richie’s eyes go wide, as if suddenly realizing what he’s said, and he starts to apologize before Eddie shakes his head.

“Don’t you dare say you’re sorry for any of that. You never have to apologize for telling me anything,” Eddie pleads, grabbing his wrist and pulling him toward him as if he's about to slip away. It’s harder than he anticipated, they’re nearly chest to chest. Eddie looks up at him and the ground sways beneath him. They pull apart a bit, but not by much.

“I read what you wrote,” Richie blurts out, eyes still wide. His heart pounds in his chest like a drum solo. “I read it and I cried and I didn’t know what to say, but I wanna say it now.” He pauses, just for a moment, to wait for Eddie’s approval. Relief swirls in his skin when he nods.

“Say whatever you need to,” he says. There’s a molotov cocktail bursting in his stomach. Fear and glee and everything else.  _ I fell in love with you. _ The words start creating another one.  _ If you said you wanted me, I’d give myself to you. _ Richie takes a deep breath.

“We’ve been dancing around this shit for a really fucking long time and it’s so fucking exhausting. I’m not angry, I’m just tired. I don’t want anything to be fucked up if I can help it. Things are already too fucked up.” The hold on Eddie’s hand tightens. The wind pushes the curls from Richie’s face and the sun is lower in the sky, now a dull purple.

“Okay,” Eddie breathes, the tension in his shoulders dissolving.

“Okay?” He makes a face.

“I guess! I don’t know what to say.”

“Just—” Richie groans, dropping his head in his hands. His fingers yank on the curls they tangle themselves in. “Just tell me how you feel about this shit!”

“Fuck, man, I don’t even know where to start.” He frowns, this isn’t a situation he thought he’d be in. Richie never talks about anything, so why would he worry about having a huge heart-to-heart to work out their feelings? He didn’t think Ren would end up being right; he owes her an apology.

“With words, probably.” Richie grins at him and Eddie rolls his eyes.

“I want to say the post was everything but I’d be lying.”

“And you don’t wanna lie anymore.” The air buzzes and burns. He still doesn’t know where to start.

“I knew I was fucked when I met you,” Eddie says, feeling the nerves in his spine crackle with each passing second, “you looked like an angel under those spotlights and I think my heart knew I wanted you before I could ever admit it. When I walked in on you and Bill on Halloween, I felt like I was gonna puke because I was jealous and didn’t want to be. When we kissed in November and I screamed at you, I think it was the first time I ever wanted to hurt myself and I haven’t said that out loud before and—”

“Hey, it’s okay. Breathe, Eds.” Richie’s honey eyes are like oceans of amber. Eddie wants to drown in them and his heart starts to slow.

“I’ve never let myself feel normal about having feelings, if that makes any sense. I knew you liked me and I never forgot any of the shit you’d say or the obvious flirting, I really wanted to tell you how I felt. There were a couple times I thought I was going to but I’d get too scared or we’d get interrupted.” A smile starts creeping up on him. He doesn’t know why they haven’t done this before. Well, he does, but he still wishes they’d done it anyway. It’s scary, but it’s freeing.

“Are you talking about Wildwood?”

“The fucking pizza thing? Yeah, I was gonna tell you before she called us down.”

“I might have a vendetta against pizza.” Richie shakes his head. They both know he’s joking, pizza is probably the entire bottom half of his personal food pyramid. There’s a lulling silence between them once more, still only the faint sound of speeding cars and distant voices. Eddie can remember the first time they sat here together.  _ I don’t feel as fucked up when I’m with you. _ He wants to hold Richie’s hand again.  _ Maybe you just needed to find your kind. _

“What the fuck do we do now?” Then, they both start to laugh. It might not be funny and it might not warrant the kind of laughter that causes tears, but they still do it. This has been a long time coming.

“Man, I don’t even know. Do you wanna come to Wildwood again in July? We’re staying for two weeks, I can finally take you on that roller coaster. Ride on it till we puke.” Richie takes his hand as if he can read his mind, looking out at the skyline overrun with blinking lights and dark sky. They don’t mention the obvious reference to his confession.

“Fuckin’  _ yes _ I do. It’ll keep me sane while I’m stuck in that house.”

“Oh,” he whispers, “I’m sorry. I forgot. Do you wanna stay with us? I’m pretty sure I can swing that.” He delves into a masterplan, about sneaking Eddie in after move-out day and keeping him hidden in his bathroom even if Maggie and Went said no — not like they would.

“I’d love to and you know it, but she’s already expecting me. I don’t think I can find any lie good enough to justify not seeing her for an entire year.” The fear burrows into his bones.  _ It’s just two months, _ he tries to rationalize. But, he knows those two months will be what they always are: snide comments, overbearing behavior, gaslighting, snooping through his things, and smothering him.

“Still stands. If you can’t take it anymore, just drive here. I don’t give a shit if it’s the middle of the night or what, I’ll be there to let you in.” Richie’s thumb brushes over the back of Eddie’s hand. Something screams in his soul.

“Rich?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you still love me?” Eddie looks at him, an angel with riotous hair and constellation skin, and feels safe. He isn’t afraid anymore.

“Yeah,” Richie whispers, “I do.” He looks like he’s memorizing the details of Eddie’s face before opening his mouth again. “Do you—”

“Of course, I do, dipshit.” A blush warms his cheeks and a smile tugs at the corners of his lips. Everything is echoing. “I have to go back to my mother and it scares me. I’ve never done anything like this before and  _ that _ scares me. But, I really wanna try this and that doesn’t scare me at all. I don’t know where your head’s at, though.” There’s no guilt in his words. Richie lets out a breath, relief spreading fast across his face.

“I’m in a weird place. My mind’s not where it’s s’posed to be and I need to get better at talking. But, I wanna try this too.” The world suddenly feels like a song, one that neither of them want to stop singing.


	11. young, dumb, and full of Bees?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summer never breaks Eddie. If anything, it fuels the spitfire raging in his chest. Flickering flames so hot they’re bright white with onyx smoke, which rises with every question about it. He lasted way longer than anybody could have anticipated, finally giving up and leaving for Worcester with only three weeks of August left. The Toziers were more than happy to have him, he supposes that should have prepared him for it all but it didn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God Has Exited the Chat — https://open.spotify.com/playlist/48Fax6gNGfnM8W134FOKGs?si=8me0lOLbRau3-cgdupc05g
> 
> Disassociating in the Bathroom at a Party — https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4WqNweNWqjzCYwEXnMdfU5si=-4lWCZrNSg2OfIbU4x95ZA
> 
> [this part's just for me to know i edited this chapter]

**SEPTEMBER**

Summer never breaks Eddie. If anything, it fuels the spitfire raging in his chest. Flickering flames so hot they’re bright white with onyx smoke, which rises with every question about it. He lasted way longer than anybody could have anticipated, finally giving up and leaving for Worcester with only three weeks of August left. The Toziers were more than happy to have him, he supposes that should have prepared him for it all but it didn’t.

Even still, the fire doesn’t die. It burns in each cell like an everlasting inferno and it sparks every movement he makes. It isn’t just anger, it’s everything — his heart is on both sleeves and it’s six times its normal size. They’ve noticed too, Richie especially; teasing Eddie about how he started sobbing over the "Thriller" dance scene in  _ 13 Going on 30 _ has become one of his favorite pastimes. To be honest, Eddie doesn’t really know what brought that on either but  _ fuck you, Richie, Jenna wanted Matt to dance with her so badly and the sadness in her eyes when she realized he really isn’t in her life in the future absolutely warrants some sobbing. _

A lot of things have been prompting overly emotional responses lately.

Kindness shouldn’t move him to tears, an envelope with a house key inside shouldn’t make his throat close up, and the nodding of heads for confirmation shouldn’t make his feel like static — but it all does. He should’ve been prepared, at least a little, when the three of them sat him down first thing in the morning and offered he move in with them. The world stopped spinning when he hears plans of abandoning on-campus housing in favor of commutes and moving him into the basement for privacy; there's even a separate door for him to use instead of the front one.

The world spins again thanks to the spitfire, feral and bursting at the seams of his skin. Another potentially reckless decision to make. Eddie agrees in a heartbeat and pulls Richie away after breakfast, slipping downstairs to look at the empty space he’ll be living in soon. It takes all but five seconds for him to ask if he wants to move down there too, all but ten seconds to say  _ yes _ he means sharing a bedroom, and all but fifteen seconds for Richie to laugh because that’s what his parents meant in the first place.

And, suddenly, the first week of the month is focused more on homemaking than their classes. It takes a day to clean out Richie’s old bedroom, tossing unneeded “keepsakes” he’d been hoarding for years and organizing the stuff he  _ does _ keep. It takes another day to paint the basement and its bathroom (most of that time spent trying to decide on a color they both like) and move all the furniture down too. It takes two days to raid thrift shops looking for the little things to make it feel more like their room instead of the huge, blank room at the bottom of the Tozier house.

Shopping for home decor with Richie might be Eddie’s favorite thing in the world. Between mocking his absolutely abhorrent taste and being mocked for his own choice, his mind wanders. He lets himself pretend they’re choosing furniture for their own place, that they’re actual adults with real jobs who own a house and act responsible. Sometimes, when Richie’s trying to follow an intricate pattern on a rug or purposefully suggesting ugly paintings to hang on the walls, Eddie lets himself pretend they’re married. Those times are fleeting, quickly pushed away with other thoughts or interrupted when he sees something he likes and points it out, but they’re there.

“Remind me to tell my parents how much I adore them for insisting we just eat the dorming deposit and live downstairs,” Richie says, rolling the cart towards the car after they pay. It’s piled high with the reusable bags Ren lent them, mostly full of fake plants (because they both know how Richie’s real ones ended up) and picture frames discounted for the stands being broken. Eddie’s close behind, trying to steer the one with the wonky wheels full of their new comforter and two different yet somehow matching nightstands.

“Trust me, I’ll never let you forget it. Maggie’s always right.”

“That’s some dangerous thinking.”

“A person who uses Flamin’ Hot Cheetos as bread crumbs for baked mac and cheese can  _ never _ be wrong. She’s a fucking genius.”

“Fair enough.” Richie unlocks the car and a smile plays on Eddie’s lips. It doesn’t take long to put it all in the trunk and drive back home. It’s a matter of actually unpacking their stuff into the room after that — the most annoying part. They start with Richie’s stuff, aiming to finish a few of the many piles before the energy goes away.

They’ve been crammed on the couch during this in-between state for days thanks to Ren accidentally breaking the pull-out part of it. It’s not like they wouldn’t be sleeping together anyway. They’ve taken to Eddie lying on his stomach, hips between Richie’s legs and head on his chest. It’s cramped and sometimes uncomfortable, but still kind of a wonder why they complain about it at all.

The bigger wonder is what exactly they’re doing. The heart-to-heart in June fixed near everything, but they hadn’t seen each other for almost the entire summer. Wildwood, though fun, was full of hesitated touches and wondering what they are. They’re pretty sure they’re dating, only avoiding to ask for fear of being laughed at or teased by the other for not knowing they are. They’re pretty sure Maggie, Went, and Ren think they’re dating too but are too polite to ask. It’s been confusing, to say the least, but it can always be worse. They don’t need a reminder of how much.

The rest of the Losers seem to enjoy watching it play out; Stan certainly is, at least. His advice, as it has been for weeks, is to  _ just fuck him already, Eddie. _ It creeps into his head a lot and makes looking Richie in the eyes difficult when he asks why he’s so lost in his head. He mostly wonders how long it’ll be before that happens. Especially times like now, when Richie’s hair is wilder than ever and he decides to wear one of the band t-shirts from his emo phase he’s cut into a crop top. Eddie swears his self-control should win him an Olympic gold medal.

“Pick a playlist.  _ God Has Exited the Chat _ or  _ Disassociating in the Bathroom at a Party?” _ Richie plops the pile of clean clothes on their stripped bed and slips his phone out of his pocket.

“You have the weirdest fucking playlist names.”

“Which is less weird?”

“The god one.” He hears music almost instantly, like Richie knew that’s the one he’d pick. It’s a blend of indie-pop and pop-rock; two of the countless genres he’ll listen to, sometimes Eddie wonders if Richie’s taste in music can even be defined. It floods the room and has them working in no time — folding clothes, putting them in designated drawers, and hanging the ones that don’t belong in the dresser. After is Eddie’s clothing pile, he leaves it for Richie to do while he starts working on their bathroom; the cabinets and their contents have seen better days. Song after song plays, with Richie mumbling the lyrics underneath, until Eddie’s done with it.

“How the fuck did you do that so fast?” Richie asks. He slips his arms around his waist and rests his chin on his shoulder. It distracts Eddie from the bottles of body wash he’s sorting through, the feeling of his fingers grazing the small strip of skin uncovered by his shirt and shorts is like electricity.

“You asking that makes me concerned you haven’t been doing anything.” He starts to turn his head, only to be met with a kiss on the cheek. Whatever attempt it is to distract him, it works.

“No, don’t look over there.”

“Rich, I swear to god I’ll strangle you if I end up doing all the work.” With that, Richie goes back to what he was (or wasn’t) doing before and gets busy. The jokes and teasing that have been going on all day lighten up while he concentrates. It’s been easier for him to do lately, the medications kicked back in months ago and he seems to be in a better place. Everyone can tell, or at least they think they can. Eddie doesn't know if he wants to ask yet.

It doesn’t take much longer to be (almost) finished. Their clothes are put away, the furniture is where it needs to be, and the rest of the decor is set up. It’s only a matter of the little things. The sense of reward for having managed to empty out Richie's old bedroom — Maggie's new library, she says — in two hours feels lessened by the fact it’s taken four days to get their new one all squared away.

“I think it’s just the pictures now.”

“And the bedding. And getting the keys for the door made,” Richie mumbles, grabbing another command strip from the pack to hand to Eddie. They hang picture after picture, stopping every so often to look at them. It’s mostly photos of the Losers and his family, some here and there from the shows he’s been in and some of the city he’s taken. Eddie doesn’t have to work hard to notice a lot of the pictures are of him and Richie together.

The last one makes his heart race. He knows it — Valentine’s Day at Beverly’s. They were all drunk or high and delirious, piled onto the couch while her phone was set up on the coffee table to fit everyone in. At the last second, Richie kissed Eddie on the cheek. Mike has his arm thrown around a blushing Stan’s shoulders, Bill is rolling his eyes as Beverly throws herself across his lap, and Ben is the only one who has a normal expression for a picture on his face. He remembers the night ending far less happy but it doesn’t matter now.

“I could look at this all day,” he says softly, hanging it up in the middle of the picture grid he’s made. He sort of forgot it existed.

“Me too.” Eddie can hear that Richie's grinning just from the tone of his voice; he turns his head to see him unashamedly staring at his ass. He hits him in the shoulder upon laying down onto the bed next to him. “Hey, not my fault it’s hard to focus when you wear booty shorts like that.”

“This is nothing, you shoulda seen when I ran track.”

“I think I’da creamed my pants the second that I did, Eds Spagheds.”

“Gross.” Eddie makes a face, nudging him slightly with his elbow. The best part is, whatever they are, they’re still them. Things haven’t really changed.

“I can’t fuckin’ believe I’m gonna graduate in May. That’s like eight months. I’m gonna have a degree in eight months.” Richie frowns, hand brushing against the outside of Eddie’s thigh. Their feet dangle off the edge of the bed and music still plays. “Holy shit that means we’ve known each other for a year. An entire year. I’m gettin’ so fucking old. Will you visit me in my retirement home?”

“Maybe.” His hand brushes against Eddie’s this time. He takes it and their fingers lace together like silk ribbons. This is the most they’ve done since June and, while they can’t really blame themselves because they were almost three-hundred miles apart most of the time, it still bugs them.

_ “Maybe?” _

“I’ll probably visit till you get dementia, then I’ll start funneling all your savings into my bank account and change your will before I kill you in your sleep. But, that’s after I’d make myself the beneficiary of your life insurance policy too so I can move to Aruba and do it all over again with some other geezer.” Richie’s laughter drowns out the music and, god, Eddie wishes he could inject it into his veins to feel it forever. He doesn’t know when Richie’s laugh became his favorite song, but he knows it beats out any Springsteen and Blondie by a longshot.

“Jesus, that got dark. I don’t have to worry about sleeping next to you, do I? All the crime shows got to your head.” His eyes are liquid amber, shining at him like stars. Everything is perfect — crooked smiles, splatter-painted freckles, and even the obnoxiously bright shirt.

“It’s literally  _ all _ I watched at home. She hates them so it kept her out of my room most of the time,” Eddie says. The mention of Sonia makes the room feel colder. They’ve been avoiding her name. Maggie and Went had made the mistake of asking how she acted after Eddie got there; about an hour of breathless ranting and trembling hands ensured no one would ask again.

Richie knew, deep down, there was a reason why Eddie showed up completely unannounced at his front door in the middle of the night. He knew then just like he knows now there’s a reason why Eddie does nothing but make reckless decisions to spite her — trying edibles for the first time, weekend-long benders, mentions of piercings, contemplation of dying his hair, and speeding when he drives are only a few of the things he’s been doing. He hasn’t gone into the specifics of the argument, but no one needs to hear them to know it’s bad. Richie decides to ask anyway.

“Was it really bad?” He softens his voice, as if the answer could be anything but a resounding yes.

“C’mon, Rich. You know it was,” he sighs. His heart flutters when he feels Richie’s thumb rub the back of his hand.

“I know, but we haven’t really talked about it.”

“It was bad the whole time, right? Like, that wasn’t surprising. I knew she’d be fucking insufferable and I was right, but it got worse. I came home late from work — someone called out and I want money so I stayed longer — and she fucking lost her shit.” The words fly out and the fire burns like someone doused it with gasoline. The flames are so white-hot they’re nearly transparent, but he keeps talking.

“I was gonna ignore her ‘cause I always do, but then she was like, ‘oh, Eddie, the neighbors have been saying you work too much and how it interferes with your personal life because you never bring girls home.’” There’s rage in every syllable, Richie can damn near  _ feel _ the fire in Eddie’s chest. He swears it’s burning the tips of his fingers, but he doesn’t let go of his hand. “I think I called her a few choice names, I’m not really sure. I know I said a lot of shit and it was all insulting. I didn’t tell her I was gay but I definitely didn’t not tell her, if that makes sense.”

“It does,” Richie whispers, squeezing his hand for reassurance. He remembers the calls after getting back from the beach house. She’d made it clear she didn’t like Eddie being around him or his family and that fight almost sent him packing, but he stayed for a full-time job as long as he could. He doesn’t blame him.

“I literally locked myself in my room like a fuckin’ kid, waited for her to give up and go to sleep, and then left at like midnight. I blocked her number for a while too. I don’t wanna deal with her shit right now.” Eddie sighs again. Ren showed him how to do it, the tension in his muscles dissipated when the constant phone calls stopped.

“I’m sorry,” he says, it’s all he can think to say.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Feel bad for me. You know I hate it. I’m here now and I’m away from her so it’s okay.” Eddie rolls onto his side, burying his face into the crook of Richie’s neck and relaxing into the curves of his body when his arm slips around him. The other lies flat against his side, no sleeve to hide the tattoos.  _ Dante’s devil. _ Eddie’s skin crawls when he realizes they haven’t talked about that either.

“You’re doing it again,” Richie says in a sing-songy tone, looking down at Eddie and pulling him closer, “just ask me how I’m doing, you goof.” The red blooms across his cheeks fast, but he smiles. There’s buzzing in the air, almost louder than everything else.  _ Do you think he’s as happy as he looks? _ Images of curls billowing in the wind and teary eyes with eyeliner smears flicker through Eddie’s head. He’s scared of the answer.

“How are you, Richie?”

“Better, I think. Definitely don’t wanna jump off a building so that’s good.” He’s careful, watching for any change in Eddie’s expression. His features soften at the mention and guilt radiates in Richie’s bones. Maybe some things shouldn’t be joked about. “Still talking to my therapist and he helps out, still taking my meds and those help out.”

“So things are...balanced?” He doesn’t know what to say, he feels pretty pathetic for the lack of knowledge.

“I mean, it’s not really like that. I still feel it all, you know? If the mania and depression are like waves, they’re still there. They’re just like low tide on a crummy beach instead of a tsunami after a nine-point-oh earthquake.” Richie frowns, almost angry at the thought. His gaze travels up to the ceiling and Eddie can hear his heart beat faster. “I’m scared I might keep thinking about, you know, stuff like  _ that _ but I can learn to manage it. I sound so fucking negative, but I think it’s right. I’m never gonna be norm—”

“Hey, I’m proud of you. I never thought you were normal and I’m not normal and I don’t want either of us to be. You’re doing well and I’m proud. You should be too.” He wraps his arms tight around Richie’s waist and squeezes, only loosening up when he hears him wince. The silence falls like a thick blanket of snow. Eddie can feel his eyes on him.

“What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?”

“Not good stuff. I’ve asked it before.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“Were you really gonna jump?” The words silence the buzzing right away. He remembers fair skin paler under fluorescent lights, hospital bands loose on his thin wrist, and echoing dial tones. He has to remind himself Richie’s still there. He’s safe, holding him close. He’s  _ alive. _

“Yeah, I think so. I went up there planning on it, at least. I couldn’t get myself over the rail.”

“Why?”

“I turned my phone on to say goodbye. To you,” Richie adds, his heart beats louder than his voice. Eddie’s isn’t far behind, he wonders if it’s as loud to Richie as it is in his skull. “I just—I called to say everything, then you actually answered and I heard your voice. I heard your  _ voice _ and it broke me and I couldn’t do it.” Tears glass over Richie’s eyes and Eddie feels them in his own. He clings to him as tightly as he can, never wanting to let go.

“You know I love you, right?” Eddie sits up a little, looking right at him and not daring to shy away. His hands start to shake, he presses them flat against Richie’s chest; it makes his eyes go wide. “Sometimes I’m worried I haven’t been saying it enough, but I love you. I really, really do.” A small, soft smile blooms across Richie’s face.

“I know you love me, Eds,” he whispers, “and I love you too.”

“We’re getting better at this. Talking, I mean.”

“Yeah, I think we are,” Richie says. Eddie burrows further into his arms. There’s not a feeling in the world they think could be better.

★★★

**— messages: Baberly —**

** _Eds [2:11 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ super important question. _

** _Baberly [2:11 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ what’s up? _

** _Eds [2:11 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ does Richie call me his boyfriend? _

** _Baberly [2:12 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ oh jfc you’re both morons _

** _Eds [2:13 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ well, yeah. _ _   
_ ** _Eds [2:13 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ but why? _

** _Baberly [2:15 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ you just are _ _   
_ ** _Baberly [2:15 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ the topic’s never really come up though _

** _Eds [2:16 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ bullshit!! _

** _Baberly [2:17 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ yeah, you’re right he definitely brings it up _ _   
_ ** _Baberly [2:17 PM]: _ ** _   
_ _ but if I tell you the answer then everyone else’s fun is  
_ _ over _

** _Eds [2:18 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ just do me this solid. _

** _Baberly [2:18 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ it’s much more fun watching y’all stumble along with  
this  _ _ shit _

** _Eds [2:19 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ ugh. _

** _Baberly [2:19 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ love you ;) _

** _Eds [2:20 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ get bent. _

** _Baberly [2:21 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ ♥︎♥︎♥︎ _

**— messages: Totally Smitten Stan (1) — **

** _Totally Smitten Stan [2:43 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ have you two fucked yet? _

** _Eds [2:44 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ no. _ _   
_ ** _Eds [2:44 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ i do have a question though. _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [2:45 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ of course, dude _ _   
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [2:45 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ what’s up? _

** _Eds [2:46 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ does Richie call me his boyfriend? _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [2:47 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ why don’t you ask him?? _

** _Eds [2:47 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ he’ll totally make fun of me if i do. _

**— messages: Big Bill — **

** _Eds [2:50 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ does Richie call me his boyfriend? _

** _Big Bill [2:51 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ dude _

** _Eds [2:51 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ please? _

** _Big Bill [2:52 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ its not as fun _

** _Eds [2:53 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ you suck. _

_ _

**— messages: Mikey —**

** _Eds [2:55 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ does Richie call me his boyfriend? _

** _Mikey [2:56 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Stan asked me not to answer, so… _

** _Eds [2:57 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ MIKE. _ _   
_ ** _Eds [2:57 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ PLEASE. _ _   
_ ** _Eds [2:57 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ FIND IT IN YOUR HEART. _

** _Mikey [2:58 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ I like having sex with him and don’t want to jeopardize  
_ _ it. _

** _Eds [2:58 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ ugh. _

** _Mikey [2:59 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ Sorry. _

** _Eds [3:00 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ i can’t stay mad at you. _

** _Mikey [3:00 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ :) _

**— messages: Haystack — **

_ _

** _Eds [3:01 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ does Richie call me his boyfriend? _

** _Haystack [3:02 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ Bev already texted me. _

** _Eds [3:03 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ ohmygod i’m gonna kill her. _

** _Haystack [3:05 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ Don’t you guys have a bedroom together? _

** _Eds [3:06 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ yeah? _

** _Haystack [3:07 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ And you say “I love you” all the time. _

** _Eds [3:08 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ yeah. _

** _Haystack [3:09 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ I thought you two were together since March. _

** _Eds [3:10 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ oh. _

** _Haystack [3:11 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ But, you should ask him. _

** _Eds [3:12 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ Ben. _ _   
_ ** _Eds [3:12 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ you lovely man. _ _   
_ ** _Eds [3:12 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ ik what you're implying please just tell me. _

**— messages: Baberly (1) —**

** _Baberly [3:14 PM]:_ ** _   
_ _ HE WON’T TELL YOU _

Eddie hides his groan. After a few weeks of settling into their classes, learning the best routes for the commute, and practicing lines for Richie’s upcoming audition, he could really use some answers. They’re still not exactly sure where they stand. 

It’s gotten better, no more hesitant touches and no more asking if they can call each other pet names. Richie’s sentences are all laced with  _ darlin _ ’s and  _ sugah _ ’s, Eddie’s questions always end in  _ baby _ ’s and  _ sweetheart _ ’s. Crawling into bed together is their favorite part of the day and they don’t bother to lock the bathroom door when they shower; sometimes they don’t even close it, using the excuse that maybe the other will need to get in, but it’s really because they hope the other sees them behind the fogged up, blurry glass and gets in to see them without the barrier.

Sex has been on Eddie’s mind the entire time he’s been living at the Tozier house — his house now too, he supposes.  
It’s on his mind in the mornings, when he wakes up in Richie’s arms and hears him singing on the commute to campus.  
It’s on his mind in the afternoons, when he gets pictures of Richie making weird faces in class and meets him at the café during their breaks.  
It’s on his mind in the evenings, when he drives them home and catches glimpses of Richie’s eyes with the setting sun.  
It’s on his mind at night, when he sees him laugh across the dinner table and they fall asleep together in the late hours, after studying or running lines or looking for jobs (Eddie looks for jobs, Richie offers for him to get him one at the library too).

The fact Eddie hasn’t just grabbed him and screamed  _ take me, you beautiful bastard _ is nothing short of a miracle — especially right now. One of Richie’s playlists is on the speakers, the windows are rolled all the way down so the wind whips his hair about, and the streetlights they pass flash across his cheeks like lightning.

Eddie, more than anything, wants to ask him to pull over. His mind swamps him with memories from the last time they kissed — his back pressed against the wall and roaming hands on his body.  _ That was months ago, _ he thinks. There’s not a reason he can think of that could justify not having done it again. But, his thoughts stop when he hears the next song starts. He can see Richie reach for his phone to change it and slaps his hand away.

“Nope. You’re driving and I like this song.”

“Fuck off, I bet you’ve never heard it before.” Richie mumbles under his breath and his face turns bright red.  _ Eddie, my love, I love you so. _ He can see the small, sly smirk on his face and how it grows when he turns the volume up. It stays silent the rest of the ride, even after the song ends. The sun is gone from the sky when they pull into the driveway and Eddie realizes every song in the playlist is a love song.

“So, when’d you make that one?”

“I’m not talking about this playlist.” Richie rolls his eyes, grabbing his bag from the back and slinging it over his shoulder. The car shakes when he shuts the door and Eddie grabs the things he forgot, his phone being one of them. He sees the playlist name when he hands it to Richie and the screen lights up.  _ Pretty Boy, _ with a picture of Eddie as the cover art.

★★★

The apartment hasn’t changed much since Bill moved in, it’s still the eclectic art deco from before but with signs of him all over; absent-minded sketches on scrap paper, short story ideas scribbled on receipts, and ragged flannels draped over chairs. There’s a new divot forming in the couch where he spends hours hunched over his laptop and shoes by the door for moments he has cabin fever so bad he needs to run down the street.

Beverly and him seem to be doing much better, financially. There’s more food in the fridge than just the bare minimum and the pressing issue of money lessened to some degree. He’d never say it to him, but Bill gets along better with Beverly as a roommate than he ever did with Richie; she never wakes him up in the middle of the night from pacing offset by mania and she never plays her music too loud.

Everyone can tell and it’s okay because Richie gets along better with Eddie as a roommate than he ever did with Bill. Maybe it’s a little different, but Eddie balances him out either way. He forces Richie to grow up; he doesn’t leave his laundry on the floor and actually cleans up after himself without prompting. They don’t argue about empty pizza boxes or the hordes of water bottles he’d keep on the bathroom counter anymore — or anything else for that matter. Things are better for all the Losers and they cling to the feeling.

“Okay, so, this is gonna sound crazy and I need you to not tell me how impulsive or stupid it is,” Eddie says, grabbing another white card from the draw pile and pouring another shot of vodka. Beverly is sober, Eddie is tipsy, and Bill is  _ plastered. _ A night in of Cards Against Humanity (except with drinking) and fast food has been the best idea he’s had all day, maybe all week. And, while Richie’s working at the library tonight, Eddie finds solace in their living room.

“Maybe. What is it?” Beverly glances up from her cards. She knows the temerity in his veins very well now, all the Losers do. There isn’t much they can do to talk him out of bold judgments, but there is to let him know when enough is enough. He’s a dog who’s just learned how to bark, on the end of his leash and ready to dish it out to anyone who looks at him the wrong way.

The most recent decision, the one none of them forget, is the bar fight he got into a few days ago. He doesn’t remember the rest, but he still has the black-eye from whoever it was. Richie’s knuckles are bruised and bloody, Eddie’s sure he joined in. No one wants to give him the details so he figures it was bad.

It  _ was _ bad; his arms wrapped around Richie’s waist, his face nuzzled into the crook of his neck, and his head fuzzy from the drinks. Someone called them slurs. Eddie heard, turned around, and punched him right in the jaw. It was quick. The man barely got one hit in before Richie was an explosion of fury, throwing him on the ground and beating the shit out of him before the bartender kicked them out and threatened to call the cops.

No one’s seen Richie that angry before. No one’s seen him violent before. That’s why they don’t tell Eddie the details; he knows he’s safe and Richie has his back. For now, it’s enough. The black-eye and bloody knuckles still sound like the sickening snap of the man’s nose in silent moments. It’s what makes Beverly and Bill stare at Eddie until he remembers he hasn’t answered the question.

“I want you to give me a tattoo with your new gun. It’s kind of a present for Richie and he can’t know about it. I don’t want anyone else to do it.”

“Sh-shit, really?” Bill stares at him, almost bewildered. He grabs his sketchbook from the counter and clicks the pen, ready to draw it up for him. He and Beverly have been doing it for all of them; the most recent has been Mike, Bill drew the angel wings and Beverly tattooed them on his wrist. “I think I cuh-can still do struh-straight lines. Not drunk en-enough to for-forget how to do th-that.”

“It’s a weird idea,” Eddie says. He’s cautious. He doesn’t want them to refuse. Not because it means he won’t get it; if they say no, he’ll have to go to an actual shop which will take much longer and cost more money — they won’t let him pay anyway.

“I’ve been tattooing Richie for the past two years,” Beverly says, looking at him with a deadpan expression. She leans over Bill’s shoulder and watches him flip through the pages until he gets to a blank one towards the back.

“Right. Forgot about that. You can’t laugh at me though.” Eddie sees them both nod at the request and he puts his cards down. “I wanna do a trashcan in a speech bubble and the words  _ pretty boy _ underneath.” Immediately, Beverly has a shit-eating grin on her face and Bill is scribbling away.

“You saw the playlist.”

“Yeah.”

“Tr-trashmouth.” Bill says, eyes wide at Eddie as if he’s realizing it just now.

“Yeah.” He says again, feeling the heat on his cheeks. He wants this to be his Christmas gift to Richie. Maybe it’s stupid and maybe it’s impulsive and maybe it’s a lot, but he still sheds his shirt and lies down on the couch when Bill’s drawing is done; Beverly is going to freehand the words, her handwriting is far prettier.

“Where do you want it, honey?” she calls from her room. The sound of her rummaging through drawers is distant. She comes back with a stockpile of things and Eddie could damn near kiss her for having gloves and disinfectant with her.

“Ribcage,” he says, watching the way the corner of her mouth twitches.

“It al-all hurts, Buh-Bev.” Bill seems to know what she’s thinking and she shrugs, putting the sketch on transfer paper and then to the right side of Eddie’s ribs. She goes through a routine of things he can barely focus on, staring at the bright blue version of the drawing on his skin. She asks a lot of questions too, if he wants color and if he’s sure; no he doesn’t and yes he is. The buzz of the tattoo gun doesn’t sway him, it buzzes in his ears like the adrenaline in his bones. Bill holds his hand when Beverly starts.

“Shit,” Eddie hisses, “how the fuck does Richie do this to himself?”

“Cruh-crazy, I think.”

“Speaking of Trashmouth, both in name and tattoo, have you figured shit out yet?” Beverly’s pale, bright eyes flicker up to him while she dips the needle in the ink again. He almost holds his breath before she gets back to his skin, but Bill squeezes his hand to sway him or maybe to remind him he hasn’t said much.

“I think he’s my boyfriend. I’m gonna say that he is. We act like a couple, I think.” The needles feel like cat scratches, white-hot and searing. There were probably a billion other places to get his first tattoo that wouldn’t be as uncomfortable, but he’s not backing out now. He can see the smiles they’re trying to hide and recognizes them, they’re the same smiles everyone gets when he and Richie are flirting or holding hands.

“Juh-just  _ fuck _ him,” Bill blurts out, making Beverly laugh so hard she has to put the tattoo gun down. That’s been everyone’s suggestion when he asks.

“There’s no way Eddie’s a top.” Beverly shakes her head, getting back to the tattoo. The pain is the only thing to distract him from the conversation. He knows he’d be blushing otherwise.

“But Ruh-Richie is? He listens to ev-everything that Eddie tuh-tells him to.”

“Tops can be submissive!”

“Eddie, wuh-which of you is guh-gonna—”

“Don’t ask him that!” Beverly laughs again and, this time, the pain from the tattoo gun doesn’t distract him; he’s used to it now. They keep talking about it, the red in his cheeks darkens and he can feel Bill squeeze his hand tighter. Eventually, Beverly’s done and she’s covering the inked skin with a clear film he has to keep on for a day. She goes through a whole bunch of aftercare, but it goes right past his head. He keeps focusing on the look of it, on the adrenaline from having it. He knows his mother would have a conniption if she saw it.

“The suh-second he sees th-this tattoo, he’ll pruh-probably blow you.” Bill sees the sharp breath Eddie takes at the mention, it only makes him smile. Beverly’s fingers work fast at disassembling the tattoo gun, he sees the smile on her face too. “Muh-maybe you should sh-show him tonight.”

“He won’t even need to show him, just has to wait like a week and he’ll probably rip his clothes off. We should make a bet.”

“On wuh-what?”

“Them. I don’t think they can keep their hands off each other for much longer.”


	12. the brain center at whipple's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “GET A ROOM, TOZIER!” Bill steals the words from his mouth, almost entirely. Beverly and Stan jump in fast, suggesting they all bail on the frat house for their apartment. The rest of the Losers agree, piling into their cars not ten minutes since first arriving. One of Mike’s playlists ends up on the speakers, Ben helps Richie pass out glasses while Stan teaches Eddie how to roll blunts for themselves and Bill. The game of Truth or Dare unravels on its own, with help candy-induced sugar highs and spiked drinks. It’s somehow much tamer than Eddie thought it’d be...until it isn’t. Try as he may to avoid it, knowing that someone will definitely do something, Eddie can’t avoid the reign of terror that are the dares headed Richie’s way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the Pretty Boy Playlist!! https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3YcETinMvoN78ggOrHTyh2?si=ohWQDxawQUK_Wcdz7H6kCg
> 
> I'm sorry it took so long and yes there’s a John Mulaney reference in here
> 
> Costumes: Eddie as Vince Everett from Jailhouse Rock, Richie as Dr. Frank N Furter from The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Beverly as Christine Daaé from Phantom of the Opera, Bill as Raoul from Phantom of the Opera, Stan as Dmitri from Anastasia, Mike as Drew from Rock of Ages, and Ben as Seymour from Little Shop of Horrors.
> 
> (if ya want party songs I got three: Dance Yrself Clean by LCD Soundsystem, Huggin & Kissin by Big Black Delta, and Fade Away by Susanne Sundfer)
> 
> also, Ham this is for you

**OCTOBER**

Richie ends up abandoning the audition altogether and, at first, he can’t hear the end of it — from Eddie and Beverly especially. He doesn’t tell them why, no matter how many times they ask. They’re answered with secrecy and waved hands. Ben is the first to figure it out; he notices the calculated and cautious approach to telling new jokes, how his eyes light up when they get a great response. Stan is the second to figure it out; he notices more scribblings in the margins of notebooks, how he leaps to click his pen after being lost in thought for so long. Beverly is the third to figure it out; she notices the lack of books he carries around, how he doesn’t seem to read in his free time anymore. None of them say a thing, much to Eddie’s frustration. Every time he asks Richie, he just shrugs and says he’ll have to find out. But, that’s not _ really _what he’s frustrated about.

It’s somehow been getting even worse — the obvious and debilitating sexual tension. Eddie swears, in fact he _ knows, _ that Richie sees it too. Everybody sees it, even his parents, and that’s the awkward part. Eddie came back from a run one morning, clad in the red shorts he knows drives Richie crazy and coated with sweat; he made the mistake of walking to the kitchen for a water bottle after. Richie was there and damn near came in his pants at the sight (which, of course, everybody else realized and Maggie made a joke about). Ever since that, it’s been even more difficult to ignore.

The lewdest, most crass thoughts pop into Eddie’s head with almost everything they do. Richie says good morning when they wake up? He can’t help but think about how hot it’d be to hear him moan his name instead. They’re studying and he catches Richie smiling at him from across the room? His thoughts go to what Richie’s lips might look like trailing down his chest. It’s their commute home and a particularly great song comes on? He wonders what songs Richie’s go-to sex playlist is made up of. Nothing is safe from Eddie’s wandering mind and, quite frankly, he thinks it’s become annoying. Most of the time he turns it into something else.

Instead of _ put your hands on me, _ he says: your side of the counter is fucking nasty.

Instead of _ I want you to bend me over a table, _ he says: your dirty clothes are all over the floor.

Instead of _ pull over and fuck me in the backseat, _ he says: your shitty car is a biohazard.

They up the silence brought on by those thoughts and it’s not like they aren’t true, it’s just coming from a different place. The message gets through, he realizes, when he walks through their door and sees Richie cleaning — in only a loose tank top and boxer shorts patterned with pineapples, a pair of headphones blasting Metallica over his unruly curls. Eddie’s jaw almost hits the floor, he can’t tell if it’s because Richie’s folding clothes or if it’s because of the lack of clothes on him. Maybe _ both _messages got through.

“Hey, Eds.” He beams at him, pulling one side of the headphones from his ear. “See, look, I’m capable of doing things.” He doesn’t wait for an answer. He puts the headphones back on and starts dancing. Eddie barely manages to shut the door behind him. After a long while of watching, Richie looks at him again. “You know it’s not polite to stare, Eddie Spaghetti.”

“Dickhead.” He hisses, stalking up the stairs and making a note not to slam the basement door (he’s not a heathen). Ren seems to recognize the anger anyway, with her eyebrow raised at the blush across his cheeks and a slight tilt of her head. She has a bottle of dye in her gloved hands but he can’t make out the color, only just now realizing her used-to-be-blue hair is bleached white and suddenly in a pixie cut. He notices the electric razor and scissors on the counter with fist fulls of hair alongside it. He realizes he forgot, somehow, that Richie isn’t the only Tozier with a knack for spur of the moment decisions; Ren has her fair share of moments too. He doesn’t have the time to say he likes it before she cuts him off.

“You look pissed.” She says, leaning over the sink to start pouring the dye into her hair. It’s bright pink. “What’d he do?” Eddie almost wants to laugh. Of course she knows that it’s Richie’s doing.

“Laundry.” He stands opposite of her, leaning against the island and hiding his face with his hands. He can feel her looking at him and he doesn’t have to check to know it’s with a weird expression.

“You’re mad at him for doing laundry?”

“No!” His voice is muffled by the sleeves of his hoodie (well, Richie’s hoodie).

“I’m confused then, what does—” This time, he looks up and Ren is a strange sight to see; hot pink dye slathered in her hair like slime and a blooming, knowing smile on her face. “Oh, I get it. He’s doing_ laundry_.”

“Not you too.” Eddie frowns and Ren goes back to focusing on the kitchen sink hair salon. He sees a tattoo peeking out from the bottom of her shirt when she leans to pour more dye in and decides not to mention it. He doesn’t know how close her parents are or if they’ll react well; he can’t imagine they’d care, she’s only got a few months until she can legally get one anyway. He knows, for sure, that the sloppy venus sign is Richie’s doing and that only further ensures his decision of not mentioning it.

“I thought you were sleeping together when I met you.” She says, ignoring the redness in his face if she notices. Is this a normal conversation? Do people actually talk about stuff like this? He feels embarrassed for not knowing. “I’m surprised you haven’t done it already.”

“Our friends are betting on it, I think.” Eddie sees the sudden pique in interest, like Ren might want to take that bet too or maybe has already. “I mean, I don’t think. I know they are, they made the bet right in front of me. Ten bucks for whoever called the specifics. It’s complicated but, basically, it’s about labels and sex.” It’s a whole mess of shit. Bill and Beverly worked it out in about five minutes and let the rest of the Losers — save for Richie — know about it soon after. Stan, Bill, and Beverly are betting on Eddie making the first move while Ben and Mike are betting on Richie making the first move. He doesn’t know what exactly the first move is supposed to be, but he doesn’t know if they do either. Beverly makes it sound like it’s about who calls who their boyfriend first and Bill makes it sound like it’s about who initiates sex first. Stan makes it sound like the two are one in the same and, honestly, Eddie thinks that’s where he might fall.

“Why not get the second part over with? Seems he’s tempting you enough.” Ren pulls him from his head, slipping the pink-stained gloves off her hands and putting a plastic shower cap over her hair. Watching her clean up the mess of instructions, cardboard, and empty bottles right away makes Eddie wonder how she and Richie are even related.

“That’s precisely why I’m not down there.”

“That’s fucking stupid.” _ Oh right, that’s how. _ Sometimes it’s easy to forget they’re both trashmouths on some level, even if Richie takes the cake. “If I know him at all, he’s down there blasting heavy metal and dancing in his underwear.” That bright, genuine smile rears its head again when she sees the shock in Eddie’s expression. He gets jealous sometimes. Richie’s smile is sunlight, it warms his heart like a fire, and Ren’s smile is moonlight, it bewitches him with awe every time. “Besides, if the other morning was any indication — and it _ was _ — then he definitely wants you too.”

“It can’t be that fucking simple.” He says, slinking off the counter and grabbing a soda from the fridge. He hasn’t eaten anything that’s remotely healthy for weeks, unless it’s some of Maggie’s cooking that he’s too polite to refuse; it’s delicious, but his body wants grease-slathered food or none at all. He’d have to be an idiot to pretend no one else is aware. He thinks Ben might start forcing him to eat better if he sees him walk into class with another bag of McDonald’s and he doesn’t blame him.

“Can’t it? I think it’s pretty simple and I’m getting pretty sick of seeing you two eye-fuck each other whenever I’m around. Just get it over with and actually fuck.” Ren relishes in the glare it earns her and grabs a can of her own.

“We don’t _ eye-fuck!” _ Eddie shrieks, face deepening a few shades of red when he sees Went walk in with his words. He assumes they’ll drop it here. He doesn’t have to have had a normal family to know that there are some topics to avoid.

“Lauren, what the fuck are you talking about?” Went stares at her and Eddie can see the glare she shoots him before he can even ask. He didn’t know her full name is Lauren, he can tell that she hates it by the small twitch in her eye.

“Richie and Eddie haven’t fucked yet.” She gestures to him and Eddie all but chokes.

“Are you serious? I swear to god, sometimes I think you have x-ray vision and just undress each other in your heads all day.” Went looks at him seriously. Okay, maybe the Toziers aren’t normal. This wouldn’t be the first time he’s thought of it. Or, maybe, the Toziers are just healthy. There’s an ache somewhere in his chest that grieves for the missed opportunity of knowing what that’s like — he drowns it with cherry cola.

“If they had x-ray vision, they would’ve fucked already!” She says, Went grabs a soda too and all Eddie can respond with is a groan. Knowing that they’re all aware and being reminded of it are two totally different things. He wonders if Richie has similar conversations but doesn’t dwell on it for too long. Thoughts of Richie always turn into dirty ones and he can’t be bothered to have them while knowing Richie’s downstairs in nothing but his underwear.

“What do I do?” He asks, rubbing his hands over his face again.

“And this is where I leave. I’m not about to help my son get laid and I’m not about to help Mags make money off me.” Went leaves with the sound of Ren’s bubbly, boisterous laughter and Eddie tries not to roll his eyes because, of course, the Losers aren’t the only ones betting on them.

“Do _ you _care about bets?” Her face is flushed and her chest rises and falls a little fast, the ghost of laughter still on her tail. She’s almost serious, or trying to be, but the giggling threatens to erupt again.

“Jesus, no. That’s their bullshit.”

“Then what’s the issue?”

“I just don’t know what to do.” Eddie sighs, tugging at his sleeves. Ren just looks at him with an expression that means he’s an idiot and that what he just said is obvious. He’s gotten good at deciphering Ren’s looks. He brings his voice down, almost to a whisper. “I mean I _ literally _don’t know what to do. I’ve never done it before.” She ignores the blush in his cheeks once again and he’s thankful, more than anything, when her features soften. The pendants’ lights shine off her dark eyes in a way that looks like a halo around her irises. He thinks for a moment that she could be an angel.

“Okay, well, you can learn. Just go downstairs and kiss him, I’m sure he won’t have any problem with it.” He wants to hug her, just for a moment, when the tone of her voice doesn’t change. He doesn’t know why he’s so happy that she isn’t making a big deal about him being a virgin; nobody else has, but the feeling still washes over him.

“The last time we kissed he did.”

“The last time you kissed, you were in the closet.”

“So?”

“Eddie, how can you be so smart but so fucking stupid? Sometimes you give Richie a run for his money.” Ren glances at her phone when it dings, but doesn’t touch it. She doesn’t see the dirty look he gives her for implying he’s anywhere near as clueless as Richie is, even if he’s really _ more _clueless.

“I just...I don’t know if I’ll do it right.”

“I’m pretty sure you could punch him in the face and he’d say thank you. Go suck his dick.” He almost spits out his drink, slamming the can down on the counter and grabbing his keys from his pocket. Okay, so, maybe the Toziers definitely aren’t normal. 

“And this is where _ I _leave. Thanks for your lovely advice.” Eddie waves as he leaves, walking to the living room and about to greet Maggie when he hears Ren yell at him from the kitchen.

“Go buy some condoms and lube just in case!” He’s pretty sure he’s in hell, his entire body bright scarlet while he tries so desperately to not make eye contact with either of Richie’s parents; all he can do is mumble an awkward apology and race out the door to his car. He drives to the nearest convenience store to take up Ren’s suggestion.

★★★

Their Monday nights of Forensic Files have turned into Thursday nights of Twilight Zone, with no less narration from Richie and no less guessing from Eddie (though he’s not right nearly as often). It’s almost entirely the same; he can tell things aren’t good whenever Richie lets entire episodes play through without muting them or making jokes. He can tell things aren’t good now because Richie hasn’t said a word since their drive home. He figures, at first, that it’s because of the dance class, the one he still loathes despite being rather good at it and complaining constantly that college has a physical education class for meeting graduation requirements. Eddie knows it isn’t that because Richie hasn’t said anything yet, which means it’s something more personal. It pulls at him, wanting to ask but being worried about the answer. He can barely keep his eyes on the screen, glancing over to where Richie sits with his laptop and types away at something.

“You’re doing it again.” Richie hums, nudging him slightly to jostle him from his thoughts. He shakes his head when he hears the mumbled apology. Eddie’s been doing it a lot, getting lost in the intricate lines of Dante’s devil and trying not to find the scar in it all (he always finds it). Every time he does it, Richie pretends not to notice for as long as he can. Sometimes though, he can’t ignore it. “You know you can just ask me stuff, right? I’m sure Satan would appreciate that more than staring contests.”

“I never know if it’s a good time,” Eddie says. The tone of his voice, soft and shy, makes Richie shut his laptop and look over at him.

“Home and in bed all alone seems like a decent time.” Richie sees the look on his face and purses his lips, Eddie tries not to think of the other possibilities to be drawn from that statement. “You mean for me, don’t you?” It’s not entirely a question, he already knows the answer. Eddie sits up, back aching from the edges of the headboard, and sighs.

“You’ve just been different lately. You seem overwhelmed.” Seem isn’t the right word. He _ is _overwhelmed. He’s fidgeting more than usual, his lips are chewed to the point of pain, and his curls look disturbed from the frequency of running hands through them. There’s not a way to overlook the tells, especially when Richie does it all and tells him that he doesn’t get stressed out; the last time it was this bad, his mania was full blown and he crashed days later. That’s what Eddie’s afraid of, the crash and all that it can bring. Tops of the science building and windblown hair and crisis centers; hospital bands and freckles gone from fluorescence and grocery store parking lots. He’s terrified of it all.

“I’m—“

“Don’t tell me you don’t get stressed.”

“I wasn’t going to, you impatient fuck. I was going to say that I’m working on something important and it’s fucking with me. You know how I skipped out on that show?” Eddie’s frown is enough of an answer, no one’s forgotten about that. Richie grins, pinching his cheek and pretending to look hurt when he swats him away. Another bit of narration means that another episode is starting, something about a battle between flesh and steel. “I wanted more time to work on this.” Richie opens his laptop again and tilts the screen toward him. Eddie doesn’t read it all, just glances in case he isn’t _ supposed _ to read it.

“A story about getting black out drunk at a high school party?” He asks, only getting the laptop shoved toward him in response, an invitation to read it all. The past few weeks make sense when his eyes go line by line. “You bastard, you’re writing a stand up routine!”

“Yeah,” Richie shrugs, as if it’s not a huge deal, “I figured I might as well start working on the thing I want to make a career out of.” His hands find Eddie’s waist, fingers brushing against the waistband of his shorts in a way that makes his heart jump and his fists curl. It’s been like this for _ weeks. _Too many weeks. Eddie doesn’t know how much longer he can take it, the thought of the box of condoms he has hidden in his sock drawer and the bottle of lube stashed in the nightstand tempts him enough without Richie touching him. He knows for a fact that Richie’s seen them, there’s no way he couldn’t have and, since then, the tension’s gotten worse. The awkwardness around Maggie and Went is worse too with them loudly announcing when they’re leaving the house and saying how long they’ll be gone. Ren just asks about the bet, sometimes around Richie with no context to make Eddie squirm.

“You know everyone’s betting on us?” Eddie blurts out when he feels Richie’s fingers graze a small strip of exposed skin. The question stops him dead, mid-movement.

“Betting on what?” There’s a smile hiding in his tone. He knows what they’re betting on and Eddie knows that he knows. It almost makes him want to drop it, but then he feels Richie’s hand slowly slipping up his shirt and his breath hitches in his chest. There’s no taking it back. He shuts the laptop and pushes it aside, swinging one of his legs over Richie’s hips and taking solace in the noise that comes from his throat once he’s on top of him. The sight is exactly what he’s been daydreaming about — widened honey eyes, curls spread out like wildfire against the pillow, and Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows. He doesn’t know if Richie’s ever been speechless. His fingers make quick work of the buttons on his shirt and it takes every ounce of self control not to rip the shirt off and send them flying.

“Cat got your tongue?” Eddie smiles, rolling his hips just slightly and earning another noise in response. He wants that sound to replay like his favorite song. A mess of tangled limbs and jumbled sheets, Richie decides he likes seeing Eddie on top of him. He’s breathless, eyes wide at the sight of Eddie’s hands fumbling to undo his belt and stopping at his expression. 

“You okay?”

“I dunno what to do.” He sits back and the pressure does no favors for trying to hold a conversation. Richie fights the urge to buck his hips at the feeling. “You’re the one that knows stuff.” A small smile flickers across his face, he starts undoing the belt again.

“Never thought I’d hear you say that.” He hooks his arm around his waist and Eddie’s back hits the mattress; those doe-eyes looking up at him might be a prettier sight than looking down at him. It’s new, uncharted territory to navigate through. Before anything else can happen, before Richie’s hands can find their place on his thighs or lips on his, the door swings open and they hear Ren laugh. Eddie, face burning red, scrambles away and stands next to the dresser like he was there the whole time.

“Were you guys making out to the fucking Twilight Zone theme?” She can barely get the words out, doubled over in the doorway and wheezing from laughter. Richie groans, flopping against the mattress in a heap.

“Well we were fuckin’ going to before you didn’t knock. What the fuck is so important? Don’t you have a bet to win?”

“It’s not my day.” Ren shrugs, getting a pillow hurled at her face in response. She ducks just in time. “Ma told me to tell you dinner’s ready, that is if you’re interested in eating something besides—”

“OKAY, THANK YOU!” Eddie shoves her out and slams the door, pressing his forehead against it with a sigh. He can hear her laugh with the creaking of the stairs and knows that there’s no way she isn’t going to tell Maggie and Went. He feels Richie’s arms slip around his waist, chin digging into the crook of his neck.

“I think the universe is actively setting out to give me blue balls.”

“The universe has more important things to do than cockblock you,” Eddie says. He tries to believe that when they go upstairs and see the surprised expressions on everyone's faces that they actually did; he could strangle himself for not remembering that they’re adults and don’t _ have _to partake in family meals. Maggie jokingly laments that she shouldn’t have decided to have a late dinner because, otherwise, she would’ve won her bet with Went and spends an uncomfortable amount of time after that talking about safety (which everyone else grits their teeth through and tries to avoid eye contact). Eddie and Richie pile onto the loveseat for Jeopardy and, out of pure spite and more luck than they care to admit, they bring Ren’s reign of victory to an end for the first time.

★★★

It’s the same place from their last Halloween party — an old, astonishingly ugly frat house with too many tones of jeweled green and _ so much _oak wood. Even getting there earlier than the rest of the Losers (which is a miracle brought on by Eddie’s insistence), they’re surrounded by hordes of people, many of whom comment on Richie’s costume. They stay close to the staircase by the door, waiting for the others, and Beverly squeals when she sees them. The sight of her is stunning; a wig with immaculate brown ringlets, a white silk robe, and a red bejeweled corset underneath.

“TRASHMOUTH!” She grabs at the pearls around his throat and runs her fingers down the corset on his chest. Eddie still doesn’t know why he decided on that, as hot as he looks it can’t be comfortable. “You look fuckin’ sexy.” She glances at Eddie, her eyes full of amusement. He doesn’t know if he can keep his hands to himself the whole night, especially since their Twilight Zone incident; nothing has happened since. She knows the same thing.

“Dig it if you can.”

“Please, for the love of god, don’t do the quoting thing again.” Stan says, burrowed into Mike’s side. Eddie realizes that, once again, he put the least amount of effort into his costume. This year’s decided theme is musicals. No one knows what Bill’s costume is because he refused to say, so did Beverly, something about surprises. He’s glad she didn’t tell him, Christine Daaé is a nice surprise.

“Don’t kill my fun, Staniel.” Richie sneers, then his eyes flicker to the opening door and he makes a face. “Dude, why the fuck are you wearing a suit?” At first, Bill opens his mouth to argue, then sees Beverly’s costume and it looks like his heart stops. His words die, gaze fixed on her, until he hears her laugh upon seeing who he’s dressed as, then he starts laughing with her. Everyone seems to understand the irony, but no one dares to talk about it. Slicked back hair, frilly dress shirt, and long white scarf — he couldn’t be anybody else.

“Luh-little Lottie,” Bill says, offering his hand to Beverly. She takes it with a smile, cheeks turning the same color pink when he brings her hand to his lips, and tucks a curl behind her ear. Eddie thinks it might be the first time he’s ever seen her look nervous.

“So it is you.” Beverly’s voice is soft, almost breathless. She hardly notices Ben walk in and greeting everyone, she definitely doesn’t notice the comment Richie makes about the fake plant he holds; Bill has all of her attention.

“Care to duh-dance?” Bill takes a step back, toward the living room archway that opens up to a sea of costumed-people. She takes a step with him and the world feels too insync with them. As the two disappear into the crowd, they can barely hear Beverly’s voice.

“Why, that’s all I ask of you.”

“_Cheesy._” Stan mutters, pretending not to smile at the way Mike’s arm slips around his waist from underneath the loose vest on his shoulders.

“Give yourself over to absolute pleasure!” Richie disappears with the Phantom duo, but only for a moment. Eddie can spy the giant pearls and feral hair despite the mess of colors and moving bodies, especially when Richie starts dancing too. All that’s in his head is the Twilight Zone theme, thoughts of flickering light and hitched breaths. He can barely get over to him quick enough once he sees him start to curl and uncurl his finger, a flicker in his eyes that goes right to the pit of Eddie’s stomach. _ Come here. _ He doesn’t hear the sly comment Stan makes or the response from Ben, he just weaves between people until he reaches him.

“Here comes the sugar man,” Richie beams at him.

“That’s supposed to be mine.” Neither of them move, just standing chest to chest amongst the pulsing music. It feels like Richie towers over him, more than he ever has. The synced up feeling gets altered, they’re the only ones who stay still.

“I can be yours instead.” His hands slide up the tight fabric of Eddie’s striped shirt and he smiles at him. It makes Eddie’s knees go weak, that goddamn smile that makes him want to sin so sweetly. He doesn’t realize they’ve started dancing, mind too preoccupied with other things. How he could take his hand, lead him to the upstairs bathroom, get thrown on the counter; undone belt buckles and love bites and heavy breathing. Hearing Richie bite back a moan pulls him out of his head. _ Is he grinding on him? Have they ever really been like this in public? _Eddie can see Stan’s smirk from across the room.

“Do you wanna—”

“GET A ROOM, TOZIER!” Bill steals the words from his mouth, almost entirely. Beverly and Stan jump in fast, suggesting they all bail on the frat house for their apartment. The rest of the Losers agree, piling into their cars not ten minutes since first arriving. One of Mike’s playlists ends up on the speakers, Ben helps Richie pass out glasses while Stan teaches Eddie how to roll blunts for themselves and Bill. The game of Truth or Dare unravels on its own, with help of candy-induced sugar highs and spiked drinks. It’s somehow much tamer than Eddie thought it’d be...until it isn’t. Try as he may to avoid it, knowing that someone will definitely do something, Eddie can’t avoid the reign of terror that are the dares headed Richie’s way.

Bill dares him to strip down to his underwear and he does it. Stan dares him to take a blowjob shot from a shot glass between Beverly’s boobs and he does it. Ben dares him to let Beverly give him a hickey and he does it. Mike dares him to spend the rest of the game in Eddie’s lap and he does it. Between those are other things, no one feeling like they can shy away from the competition Richie’s spurred; Ben has to take a body shot off Mike, Stan has to let Richie tattoo something on his ass (it’s a chair), Bill has to let Beverly dye his pubes blue, and Mike gets asked to describe how Stan is in bed.

Each dare gets more and more calculated, the smallest ways the Losers can try to influence their bet. Richie’s skin crawling for a long while before he does something about it. Neither of them can remember what they say to excuse their leaving early because everyone knows the real reason why. The drive home is agonizing, long silences between small talk about how they can’t believe Bill actually let bleach and hair dye anywhere near his dick and how the color looks surprisingly good compared to what everyone expected. The silences get more tense the closer they get to the house. Keys jingle and they stumble through the door, careful not to be too loud.

“I don’t know how Bev can wear these for fun.” Richie says, tugging at the fishnets on his legs until they rip. He plops down on the edge of the bed to shimmy out of the rest of his costume, leaving only the smudged makeup and almost too tight briefs. “I can’t fuckin’ stand ‘em.”

“At least you looked hot in them.” Eddie says, ridding himself of his own clothes. He slips on one of Richie’s flannels, how it hangs off him like a dress. He can feel him staring and turns around to check anyway. He’s right. Richie hasn’t stirred from his spot, head tilted with curls dangling, and marveling at him like he’s a masterpiece. It reminds him of when he invited him to the beach house. The way he looks at him, all Eddie can think is the same thing. _ Oh god, I’ve got it bad. _

“I really love you.” His voice is low, something about it so genuine. The light from the hall, creeping in from under the door, gives his freckled skin a soft glow. The curves of him are carved into marble, delicate and defined. Tattoos like hieroglyphics, a story for Eddie to read all his own. His eyes are liquid gold, shining at him like spotlights and never shying away. It scares Eddie. It scares him how in love with Richie he is. The tension is gone, just like it always is when he wises up and remembers this is _ him. _ He’s always safe with him.

“I really love you too.” He says, their knees brush against one another when he sits down next to him. He doesn’t know who moves first — maybe they both do — but they’re a mess of wandering hands and breathy moans in mere moments. It’s needy and heated, but somehow lazy too. Richie tastes sweet; no more nicotine or mojito chapstick, thank the quitting and the discontinuation of his favorite brand. No, he’s sweet like Pop Rocks and pink lemonade, just barely there so Eddie can chase the taste. His tongue is soft, painting nonsensical patterns of swirls inside Eddie’s mouth. His fingers pull on those wild curls and the sounds he draws from Richie are like a choir.

“Eds?” Richie mumbles against his lips, his voice apparent that he’s a nervous wreck. Eddie pulls away, lips tingling and swollen, and knows what he’s going to ask. “Does all this mean that—”

“Look, I might not know how it works but there’s no way we aren’t dating by now.”

“Just making sure.” He hums, pulling him in for a kiss again. This time, they don’t stop.


	13. shitfaced shakespeare, sitcom moms, & stupid fucking bullshit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “God, we’re fucked up.” Eddie smiles, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Do you remember what you said the first time you showed me our spot? I said I didn’t feel as fucked up when I was with you and you said—"  
“Maybe you just needed to find your kind,” Richie says. The wind pushes his curls into his face and he rolls his eyes, not bothering to fix it. Eddie wants to tell him that he has found his kind, that he found it on a dinky, low-budget stage and mid-panic attack, but he doesn’t have to. Richie knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey there, demons. it's me, ya boi. sorry it took so long to update, ya boi is goin' through it.  
btw Shitfaced Shakespeare is 100% a thing and i definitely suggest goin' to see one bc it's fuckin' hilarious.  
(the song at the end is Take Me Down Easy by Henry James Jr.)
> 
> here the It's About Fuckin' Time playlist  
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0KlFJb99asW77Z0yhcoqYu?si=zwlzHEn7R-ykFlu2vS0auA

**NOVEMBER**

The stars look like pinholes poked into the sky, letting in the smallest bit of light from what’s behind the dark curtain of smog and clouds. Music from the band floats in the air, rushing out in every direction after leaving the amps, and the strings of lights illuminate the rooftop with gold. They can see the entire city from their table, overlooking the blinking headlights from the streets and glimpses into lives from open windows. The waiter brings them their drinks — a Malibu Bay Breeze for Eddie and straight whiskey for Richie (which he absolutely made a joke about). It’s the most upscale place that they’ve been in the city and it’s considered one of the more seedy places, but that’s to be expected for two broke college kids and the idea of a rooftop restaurant stole Richie’s heart from the beginning. He can’t think of a better place to take Eddie on their first real date.

The thing about reaching a breaking point is the issue of what comes after that. In their case, there’s no hesitation to keep them from acting on every last one of the thoughts that pop into their heads. Crazy what a Halloween makeout session can do. Instead of bitching at him for leaving his shoes in the middle of the floor, Eddie can actually tell Richie to touch him like he wants. Instead of drowning his anxiety with music, Richie can actually use the words _ boyfriend _ and _ date _in the same sentence as Eddie’s name. A huge chunk of his savings is going toward this night but to see the look on Eddie’s face when he realized they were going on a date was priceless.

“I feel like an adult.” Richie says, sipping on his drink and shifting in his seat. Not only is it their first date together, it’s the first date either of them have been on period. Something about it feel tense, the want to make it perfect so strong.

“Oh yeah, all adults wear button-up shirts with dinosaurs on them.” Eddie smiles, reaching over to tug on the sleeve. He doesn’t think it’d look good on anybody else — a bubblegum pink button up with colorful cartoon dinosaurs all over. Even when he teases, pretends that he can’t stand the taste in clothes that Richie has (and sometimes he really can’t), it works on him. He doesn’t know anybody else in the world that could actually turn him on while wearing shirts as ridiculous as that. But, to be fair, Richie could probably turn him on doing, wearing, and saying anything.

“If you hate it so much you can always take it off when we get home.” He relishes in the immediate and furious blush that creeps across Eddie’s face. The only time they can act like this is when nobody else is around, the Losers don’t know about Halloween and flirting like this in front of Maggie, Went, or Ren would feel wrong.

“Maybe I will,” Eddie says. They haven’t even gone very far, that’s what makes him blush so much at the thought. Halloween was great, but it didn’t lead to much; he’s not sure how far he can even go. If it weren’t for the Christmas present that he wants to save, he’d probably do a lot more. So far, he hasn’t taken off his shirt once in front of Richie and it’s only getting weirder, but Richie never questions it. The amount of times he’s almost fucked it all up in the heat of the moment is nearly uncountable.

“We’ve got more places to go, Eddie Spaghetti. I highly suggest not talking about that till we’re in the car.” His eyes spark with something dark and playful. It’s a dare. They’ve learned rather quickly that Eddie’s the one who likes to be in control and Richie has absolutely no qualms about it. So, if he really wants, he can keep talking about what he likes and drive Richie wild all night. “It’d be a shame to miss Shitfaced Shakespeare because of a dinosaur shirt.”

“I—_what?” _

“A bunch of actors put on a play by Shakespeare except one of them gets hammered and they’ve all gotta improv around them. Bev helps with the costumes and told me about it.” His drink is near gone, slender fingers wrapped around the glass. Besides what _ else _he wants to see those fingers wrapped around, all Eddie can think of is how he’s been using the wrong description, sunlight shining through whiskey isn’t nearly as pretty as Richie’s eyes. Golden honeycombs, polished copper, Baltic amber — those aren’t enough either.

Realizations like this aren’t new for him, but they hit just as hard every time. Ask his favorite color and he’ll think of Richie’s eyes, ask his favorite song and he’ll think of Richie’s laugh, ask his favorite book and he’ll think of the words Richie whispers in his ear. Everything is him. Everything is him and Eddie knows he shouldn’t be surprised, he’s learned how to think up other things when someone does ask but the first thought is always the same.

“If you’d want to, you know?” Richie says, a nervous look plastered to his face. Eddie realizes he hasn’t been listening. All he has to do is tilt his head, ever so slightly, and Richie understands. “To get an apartment someday.”

“Why wouldn’t I want to?”

“I dunno. It’s a lot, I guess. I was kinda surprised when you moved in with us.” He realizes how stupid it sounds after saying it out loud. Eddie would follow him to the ends of the earth, and he’d do the same. However they go out, they’ll go out together and against the world.

“You dumbass.” He shakes his head, grabbing the collar of Richie’s shirt and pulling him into a quick kiss. He looks lovestruck, drunk on the feeling, and Eddie can practically see the hearts in his eyes.

“Wanna get outta here?” He finds his voice, still heady with adoration, and Eddie smiles. Fuck typical dates — they’re not a normal couple.

“I thought you’d never ask.” They pay for their drinks and leave, the keys jingle with each step and the fluorescent streets are filled with their footsteps. The drive is insufferable; sporadic traffic jams and being stuck in a space so small but not able to do something about it. Once the traffic starts to disperse and they’re almost home, in a moment of devious thinking, Eddie decides to make it worse. He settles for a playlist that Stan sent him. _ It’s About Fuckin’ Time. _ He knows both of the meanings, but the songs aren’t what he expects — slow and steady instead of the alternative. No time to contemplate them before he’s reaching over and undoing Richie’s belt. He can _ see _how hard he is, wanting nothing more than to know the thoughts that must’ve been going through his head the whole drive.

“Um,” His breathing hitches at the feeling of Eddie’s warm hands against his skin, “what’re you—”

“Keep driving,” Eddie says. All questions die in Richie’s throat; his voice cuts off, running from him. It takes small, awkward movements to get his jeans and boxers down to his knees. “What the _ fuck, _Richie? You could’ve been joking at least a little bit.” Eddie frowns, he has half a mind to let him suffer the rest of the drive but doesn’t think he can keep his hands to himself for that long. Not after seeing him. Jokes bubble up in Richie’s head and then all he can do is focus on two things, Eddie’s hand on his dick and how goddamn thankful he is to have tinted windows. He lets himself glance over, just for a second, and sees the anticipation; the quick bob of his Adam’s apple and it’s back to a greedy gaze. Richie damn near crashes the car, grip on the steering wheel faltering from the way Eddie’s tongue runs across his bottom lip. He decides to not look over again.

Slow, languid, lazy. Drawing a breathy moan from Richie’s throat, it’s like electricity; his touch burns in a white-hot light. The self-conscious, second guessing in the back of Eddie’s head is muted by the shallow rises and falls of Richie’s chest, quickening with the pace he sets. The sounds he elicits are like a choir, flooding the car and spilling from Richie’s lips — noisy even now, Eddie’s not sure what else he expected.

“Eds, I—” His voice cracks, knuckles bright white on the steering wheel. The car lurches to a stop in the driveway and all restraint stops with it. They’re an awkward symphony of stuttering movements and whispered reassurances; Eddie climbs into his lap once the seat is pulled back, hand slipping down to start stroking him again. Richie’s lips find his and he tastes like whiskey, malt gasps and citrus moans that lick into Eddie’s mouth. He could get drunk on that alone. Filthy, pornographic sounds replace the choir, a new kind of music that he never wants to go without.

“Need you,” Richie mumbles. Needy and whiny and desperate. His breathing gets faster, head falling back against the seat with Eddie’s lips trailing along his jaw.

“You have me,” Eddie says. He goes faster, teeth grazing the skin of Richie’s neck, he knows he’s close. “You always have me.” It’s all it takes. Strung out curses and steamed up windows, sticky hands wiped off on already-stained shirts.

“God, I love you.” The sight of him burns into Eddie’s brain — beads of sweat on Richie’s forehead and the flush of his cheeks. He wants to savor it, wants to live in it forever, but the porch light flickers on and they’re scrambling to look decent (or as decent as they can with streaks of Richie’s cum on their shirts). The cold air stings Eddie’s hands, unlocking their door and trying to close it behind them fast enough. He tries not to laugh, glancing over at Richie while they lean against the door, and his heart jumps.

He can barely unlock his phone, trying to connect it to the speaker and shuffle the playlist again. He drops it once the music restarts. Richie’s lips are on his neck, leaving lazy, wet kisses trailing down that turn his thoughts to static. His hands are on him, fingers digging into his hip bones and ready to slip beneath the loose waistband of his pants. The doorknob poke into his back but he’s too preoccupied with the friction he’s chasing, Richie’s knee wedged between his thighs in a way so tempting. He rolls his hips, hands grabbing at the bottom of Richie’s shirt and tugging from where it’s tucked in.

“Needy.” Richie mumbles against Eddie’s collarbone, shirt pulled to the side and teeth grazing against the skin still bruised from Halloween.

“Rich,” He whines.

“Tell me what you want, baby.” He’s steady, hands still as he pulls Eddie’s pants down and all he can do is hum in approval, a wildfire igniting down his spine with the cold chill of air on his bare legs. The sight of Richie sinking to his knees is euphoric; he takes his time, kissing through the fabric of Eddie’s shirt and trailing his fingers down the curves of his calves into patterns; circles, swirls, and squiggles that cease when he slowly, almost painfully drags Eddie’s underwear down. He stares, not caring to hide it.

“Take a picture, Trashmouth. It’ll las—oh _ fuck.” _ Eddie moans, back arching at the warm, wet feeling of the inside of Richie’s mouth. _ The nickname doesn’t suit him anymore, _ he thinks. It’s all that he can manage to think, heart pounding in his chest in the pattern of his name. _ RichieRichieRichie, _ over and over_. _ His hands find the thick, dark curls of Richie’s hair, too overwhelmed to tug on them until the quick bobs of his head get faster. He worships him, every lick and swirl a prayer. Eddie knows he can’t last much longer, not with him looking up at him like he is.

“Richie,” He breathes. Those damn eyes of his, a goddamn golden honey and sunlit whiskey and polished amber daydream, falter on the curves of Eddie’s cheeks; he comes undone in a drunken haze of curses and moans. Richie thinks he could live off the taste of him, high on the feeling of his fingers tangled in his hair. His knees ache when he stands and Eddie presses slow, tired kisses along his jaw. They rifle through the dresser for clean clothes and change, crawling into bed with the music still lulling.

“We should try for another date night next week,” He says.

“Can’t promise it won’t end the same exact way.” Richie smiles, arms wrapping themselves around Eddie’s waist and pulling him closer.

“I’m counting on it.”

★★★

The drive takes two hours, full of vague stories about previous Thanksgivings in Plum Island and raves about Went’s mother’s pumpkin pie recipe. Ren warns Eddie about the tradition of drinking and card games after dinner is over, Went warns him about their habit of blasting opera music while they cook, and Richie soothes his nerves with the reassurance that the basement is always open if he just wants to watch crime shows on the couch (this, of course, is immediately outlawed by Maggie in the name of family interaction).

They pull up the gravel driveway and the house looks like a typical New England beach property got injected with HGTV steroids. Eddie has a hard time even calling it a house, wanting to say it’s a mansion but knowing there’s not a single room that goes unused. Wood shingle siding, white trim, and huge windows; he doesn’t believe them when they say Richie helped out with the design when they renovated until he walks inside. Purple couches, side tables littered with slews of knickknacks, and an area rug that looks like an LSD trip — he’s angry to admit it looks great.

Everyone’s excited to see Eddie, there’s slews of hugs and _ how are you _’s until a cousin whose name he can’t remember (and feels horrible for) sees that him and Richie are holding hands. It doesn’t take very long for everyone else to notice too.

“Are you two—”

“Yeah, Aunt Leda.” Richie beams at her, pulling Eddie closer to him and slipping an arm around his waist.

“About fuckin’ time, right?” Ren makes the room bloom with laughter and Eddie’s too caught up in it to care about the jab. They find their way to a couch after a few glasses of wine; Richie lays on him, hips between his legs and head on his chest. While Eddie goes through his phone, his hand runs through the dark curls and Richie’s near ready to doze off. The repeated, furious dings of his own phone wakes him up.

**— messages: sloppy bitches (1) —**

**_— Baberly renamed the group: LOSERS’ HOUSE —_ **

** _Baberly [12:12PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ we’re all building a house and living together.  
_ ** _Baberly [12:12PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ Mediator Mike is who we go to when there’s any _ _  
_ _ roommate disputes. _ _  
_ ** _Baberly [12:12PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ Stan, you’re the chef. _ _  
_ ** _Baberly [12:12PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ i’m head of security. _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [12:13PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ can I be chef AND gardener? _

** _Baberly [12:14PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ sure. _

** _Trashmouth [12:15PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ I will not be permitted in the kitchen for anything but _ _  
_ _ cereal or pasta _

** _Baberly [12:16PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ we need fresh produce to survive off the grid. _

** _Big Bill [12:16PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ i’ll make the signs whenever the chat name changes _ _  
_ _ and put them outside the house _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [12:17PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ this Pleases me _

** _Eds [12:18PM]:_ **_  
_ _ Richie isn’t even allowed to think about the kitchen.  
_ ** _Eds [12:18PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ not after the Chicken Tenders and Perogies incident. _

** _Big Bill [12:19PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ im sad to say likewise bc i unfortunately remain _ _  
_ _ traumatized after my part in that _ _  
_ ** _Big Bill [12:19PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ also why is Pleases capitalized _ _  
_ ** _Big Bill [12:19PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ why is that so unsettling _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [12:20PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ emphasis _

** _Big Bill [12:20PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ emphasis? _

** _Eds [12:21PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ emphasis. _

** _Trashmouth [12:21PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ Emphasis _

** _Haystack [12:22PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Emphasis. _

** _Mikey [12:22PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ E M P H A S I S _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [12:22PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ thank you Mike _

** _Big Bill [12:23PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ very cool _

** _Baberly [12:24PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ bitch got a headache. _

** _Mikey [12:25PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ Aw, you’re welcome. _

** _Eds [12:26PM]:  
_ ** _ Richie’s aunt is driving me nuts. _

** _Trashmouth [12:27PM]: _ **  
_ She’s watching conptetivie pumpkin carving  
_ ** _Trashmouth [12:27PM]:   
_ ** _ Jfc what word is that _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [12:28PM]:   
_ ** _ i too am watching that  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [12:28PM]:   
_ ** _ the cooking competition is rotting my brain cells _

** _Mikey [12:29PM]:   
_ ** _ Same boat, Eddie. _

** _Trashmouth [12:30PM]:   
_ ** _ What brain cells? _

** _Big Bill [12:31PM]:   
_ ** _ richie i just saw how you typed “competitive” and _ _  
_ _ snorted so loudly and so painfully that it scared _ _  
_ _ Georgie and woke up our dog _

** _Eds [12:32PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ when’d you get a dog?  
_ ** _Eds [12:32PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ and more importantly why weren’t we told? _

** _— Totally Smitten Stan renamed the group: petition to put Bill down — _ **

** _Big Bill [12:33PM]: _ **  
_ hey wtf _ _  
_ ** _Big Bill [12:33PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ what are you my mother ?? _

** _— Eds renamed the group: petition to put Bill on a pedestal —_ **

** _Baberly [12:34PM]:   
_ ** _ [NowWeDon’tHaveTimeToUnpackAllOfThat.img] _

** _Haystack [12:34PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ This got depressing so fast. _

** _Trashmouth [12:36PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ We know something that’ll help _

** _Eds [12:37PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ [YourBetResults.img] _

** _Big Bill [12:38PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ are those hickies?? _

** _Trashmouth [12:38PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ Happy Thanksgiving, you horny fucks _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [12:39PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ 👀👀👀 _

** _Baberly [12:40PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ those most certainly are hickies. _

** _Haystack [12:40PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ Halloween? _

** _Trashmouth [12:41PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ Yeah but not those ones _

** _Baberly [12:42PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ OHMYGOD _

** _Eds [12:43PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ y’all’ve seen hickies before. _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [12:43PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ this is, and i don’t say this lightly,  
_**_Totally Smitten Stan [12:43PM]:   
_**_a life or death question,_

** _Eds [12:44PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ asking who made the first move isn’t a life or death _ _  
_ _ question, Staniel. _

** _Big Bill [12:45PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ it is to me i mightve lost money _

** _Eds [12:47PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ i don’t really remember tbh. _

** _Trashmouth [12:47PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ Eddie did  
_**_Trashmouth [12:47PM]:   
_**_Quite literally grabbed me and kissed me_

** _Eds [12:48PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ there you have it then. _

** _Haystack [12:49PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ Damn it. _

** _Big Bill [12:49PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ :) _

** _Baberly [12:50PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ YAAAAS _

** _Totally Smitten Stan: [12:51PM] _ ** _  
_ _ $$ ma ma ma money $$ _

** _Mikey [12:52PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ Jfc, Rich. _

** _Trashmouth [12:53PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ What’d I do? _

** _Eds [12:54PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ i think he’s talking about the hoover style job you _ _  
_ _ worked on my neck.  
_ ** _Eds [12:54PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ or he’s mad you made him lose via not kissing me _ _  
_ _ before i kissed you. _

** _Baberly [12:55PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ it’s probably both but _ _  
_ ** _Baberly [12:55PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ i wanna know all the details. _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [12:56PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ fuck that i just wanna know if you fucked _

** _Haystack [12:56PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ I agree with Stan on this. _

** _Eds [12:57PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ we haven’t fucked. _

** _Big Bill [12:58PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ are you serious? _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [12:59PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ H O W _

** _Trashmouth [12:59PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ I’m just as confused as you are tbh _

Eddie shoots him a glare, ready to rattle off in the chat with a bunch of insults he doesn’t really mean, but a number pops up on his screen. He doesn’t know it but he knows the area code — Derry. He mumbles something to Richie about answering it and slips out through the patio doors. The air is chilly, but it calms his nerves.

“Hello?” He can barely speak, an explosion of words greets him. At first, he can’t quite understand them all; it’s just a mess of _ are you okay _ and _ what’s the matter with you _until he realizes he recognizes the voice. Of course, why should today go well? “Mom, who’s phone are you using?”

“I got a landline. I wouldn’t _ have _to have gotten one if you loved your mother and answered her calls. How will you feel when I’m dead? You’ll regret not talking to me and it’ll be too late to—”

“This is exactly why I blocked your number, just so you know.” He starts pacing, feet burning from the freezing wood. He hears the sliding door open and knows it’s Richie. He still turns to check, even though he doesn’t have to.

“That’s a horrible thing to say, Eddie-bear,” Sonia says. Eddie rolls his eyes and sees the questioning look on Richie’s face, it vanishes and twists into a knowing one when he mouths the word _ mother. _

“Why’d you call me?”

“I saw your tuition bill in the mail, it said you’re not living on campus anymore. Why didn’t you come home after you dropped out? Where are you?” She goes on and on and on. He can barely stomach it. The fire from the summer has just started to dwindle, after the Losers finally told him what happened at the bar, but Sonia dowses it with gasoline and his chest erupts with furious flames.

“I didn’t drop out, I just stopped living on campus.”

“Well, where _ are _ you living? You know that I—”

“With a friend,” He says. His eyes fixate on the twitching in Richie’s fingers and it means one of two things. He knows that one of them isn’t very likely right now, so something in him sinks. Richie’s been doing really well with quitting smoking, but maybe not as well as Eddie thought.

“Is your friend a girl?” Her voice goes cold, sending chills down Eddie’s spine. _ Filthy boy. _ He knows that voice because he’s seen the face that goes with it. _ I’ve been trying for years to help you get better. _He looks over at Richie, wrapped up in the plaid, fleece blanket from the couch and eyes still bleary from sleep. It’s enough.

“No, he isn’t.” He hangs up and shuts his phone off before the chaos, padding over to where Richie leans against the railing. He lays his head on his shoulder and sighs. “I know you came out here to sneak a cigarette.”

“What?”

“I know you came out here to—”

“No, I heard you.” Richie says, watching the coastline. “I just wanna know why you think that me coming out here to check on you means I’m smoking again.” The fire dies. Eddie squeezes his eyes shut and takes a shallow breath.

“I’m sorry,” He whispers. The light is almost painful when he opens his eyes again. The twitching fingers must mean the other thing. What’s he anxious about? He likes being around his family. “Two taps if you’re okay.” His heart sings when he feels two taps on his thigh. He wishes they’d come up with this system a while ago, it would’ve saved them a lot of trouble.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“She’s trying to weasel her way back into my life again. I need to change my address with the school and take her off my loans somehow. She just fucking ruins everything. I keep waiting for her to change and I never learn.” Eddie sighs, burrowing into Richie’s side and finding warmth in the arm that wraps around his waist. He always makes him feel safe. The anger dies down and something darker replaces it, something sad. “Every time this happens, I think: hey, maybe she’s finally gonna step up and be a good mom. And then I’m hurt when she doesn’t do it, like it was ever a possibility in the first place...like she’ll just wake up one day and be Maggie. Even if she was, I don’t know if I could forgive her for everything before that.”

“Why do you want her to be like my mom?” Richie asks, quiet and almost breathless. Eddie can only shrug. It feels silly to say it out loud now. Sitcom moms and sitcom dads were his favorite things to dream about as a kid, he used to hope that Elyse Keaton or Fran Fine would adopt him. The idea of telling Richie that makes him realize how stupid it is.

“She’s like the mom on That 70s Show, you know? She’s a kickass lady with a big heart, she and your dad have an amazing relationship that makes me wanna believe in marriage, and she does right by her kids even when they do stupid shit. Why wouldn’t I want her to be a mom like yours?” He feels Richie stiffen beside him and knows something’s wrong. He doesn’t have to ask, just looks up to see him and finds glassy eyes that don’t leave the horizon. Eddie waits for the words while Richie purses his lips and shakes his head, but he still talks.

“She wasn’t always like that, actually.” Richie shakes his head again, a little more furiously, and wipes the tears away before they can fall. “My childhood wasn’t so shitty because of Bowers or the bipolar — I mean, it _ was _but that’s not what Ren is talking about.”

“What is she talking about then?”

“Our parents were shitheads, Eddie. When we were kids, our parents were shitheads and it took Bowers beating the shit out of me and me almost killing myself for things to get better.” Richie’s voice is harsh, it cuts deep and down to the bone. He doesn’t shy from it, not like he normally would, this time he uses it as ammo. Eddie keeps waiting for Richie to say that he’s joking, but he doesn’t. That’s what hurts the most, knowing that everything Eddie had just said about Sonia is something that Richie feels in his bones.

“I didn’t know, Rich.” His fingers curl around the fabric of the blanket and he tugs him closer. It’s not an apology for not knowing, it’s the small way he can think of to let him know he’s listening. They’re still figuring out the ‘talking about feelings’ thing.

“I didn’t wanna say anything. It’s easier to ignore how it was before.”

“Did they—”

“God, no. No, they just weren’t there. Sometimes I’m still angry that I didn't get to have real parents the whole time. But, most times, I’m just happy I have that now. I used to want a sitcom family too,” Richie says. He still looks at the water and Eddie thinks of spring break, how his head had disappeared beneath the frigid waves didn’t reappear until he screamed at him. It feels scarier, somehow, knowing what he does now. He wonders if the ocean calls to Richie in a crueler way.

“What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?”

“I don’t know if your mom can change and I don’t think she deserves the chance to prove it, I can’t even tell you what I think of her but I know you heard me last year.” Richie shuts his eyes tight, as if waiting for a rebuttal, but all Eddie can do is stare. _ I don’t even know everything that fucking woman has done to him. _ Richie opens his eyes and stares back. _ I don’t want to know because if I fucking found out I think I’d kill her. _

“You knew?”

“You’re the heaviest fucking sleeper, me snapping in your ear wouldn’t bother you any more than an alarm clock with a baseball bat attached. ‘Course I knew,” Richie says. A small smile tugs on the corners of his lips and he glances over at Eddie, the sun gleams a soft, white gold on his splatter-paint freckles. “I kind of wanted you to hear it anyway. Or, I did, until it went in a direction way different than I thought it would.”

“How’d you think it’d go?” Eddie nudges him and the scratchy blanket makes his skin crawl.

“More _ you should tell Eddie you like him _and less Sonia Kaspbrak.”

“I don’t know what to do about her,” He sighs. It’s quiet for a while again, as quiet as it can be. Waves crash against the golden sand, wind billows through the fabric of their clothes, and the blanket does nothing to warm them. He tries to imagine their alternate universe lives again, where they grew up together and things were never bad; it looks different now. Instead of Maine summers, it’s Plum Island summers. Instead of Maggie and Went, it’s the Formans. Instead of the quarry by Derry, it’s this beach with kites flooding the sky. He feels Richie tug him closer, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders too.

“I don’t know either. I can just tell you what I think.” He says, waiting for Eddie to nod. He’ll only tell him if he wants to know, and he does. “No amount of hoping she’ll change will do anything because it’s not up to you and it’s fucking shitty. It’s not fair and you deserve better, but it’s not up to you for her to change. It’s up to her and, if she ever does, it’s up to you to decide if you forgive her.” Eddie thinks for a long time and the waves fill up the silence.

“I don’t think I can,” He finally says. Something about it is freeing.

“That’s okay, you know. That doesn’t make you a bad son, that makes you human. It’s okay to look out for yourself, Eds. You should do it more.” Their hands find each other, numb from the cold and tingling. Richie grabs a stray cigarette from his pocket and tosses it toward the garbage can. He misses. “That doesn’t mean anything by the way.” For a moment there’s nothing, until Eddie throws his head back and laughs. Then, Richie laughs too.

“God, we’re fucked up.” Eddie smiles, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Do you remember what you said the first time you showed me our spot? I said I didn’t feel as fucked up when I was with you and you said—”

“Maybe you just needed to find your kind,” Richie says. The wind pushes his curls into his face and he rolls his eyes, not bothering to fix it. Eddie wants to tell him that he has found his kind, that he found it on a dinky, low-budget stage and mid-panic attack, but he doesn’t have to. Richie knows.

“I love you.” The words are instinct, the same marveling tone they’re always laced with. He can’t imagine not loving him. He can’t imagine looking at Richie and not being blown away by him — even like this, with stubble sparsely on his face from being too lazy to shave and wearing the same clothes he has for three days.

“I love you too, Eds.” Richie kisses him. It isn’t needy or intense, at least it doesn’t mean to be, but Eddie’s mind wanders and his hands slide down from when he pulls away.

“How many bedrooms does this house have again?” He asks, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of Richie’s jeans. He takes solace in widening honey eyes, but finds even more in the smirk that forms.

“Like six, why?”

“Wanna go lock ourselves in one and fool around?”

“Dear god, _ yes. _ I thought you’d never ask.”

★★★

The final paper for Eddie’s Family Systems and Therapy course is kicking his ass. The class itself has been kicking his ass all semester, not necessarily in terms of workload because he’s never had that problem, but because of content; issues in family functioning with particular emphasis on internalizing and externalizing disorders in adolescents with cases of trauma and abuse, he feels like it was practically made just to subtweet him. Mondays and Wednesdays have become the hardest for him, but Richie is always there like he is now.

They’re sprawled out across their bed, the sheets warm and crumpled up from hours of lounging around and getting work done. They each have their own earbuds in because Richie likes 90s rap for studying and Eddie’s gotten used to the Top 40s from years of cramming with Stan. It’s just enough to have each other there within arms reach, to see the annoyed huffs when they get stuck on something or place an encouraging hand on their leg.

Hours spent on the same two paragraphs gets to be too much and Eddie slaps his laptop shut, tossing it toward the middle of the bed when he gets up to start pacing. Richie hardly looks up, he’s been watching this pattern for days — crank out five hundred words in half an hour, get frustrated when the pace slows, and then furiously wander around the room until the motivation comes back.

“Stupid fucking bullshit.” Eddie grumbles, nearly making a rut into the floor. “Why should this crap be sixteen pages? Why the fuck is this needed?” He rambles on, the same spiel that it’s been for days. “I should’ve picked a different major.”

“Why?” He pulls himself up from the nest of pillows he’s made, one side of his hair sort of flattened from laying on it for so long. “Is this because of what we talked about last week?” He gets up the instant he sees Eddie’s reluctant nod, he stands in front of him and grabs his hands. Eddie avoids his gaze, looking up at him when he feels a hand on his cheek. There’s been tension for a while, Eddie’s anxiety more rampant than usual. His first panic attack in months since ditching Sonia showed up mid-nap during a Twilight Zone episode. Sudden sobbing and gasping for air, the repeat of heartbreaking words. _ I’m dying. I’m dying. I’m dying. _A nightmare about diseases, he reached for an inhaler that wasn’t there. Richie held him and slowed him into a calmness, whispered reassurances in his ear until the panic died.

“You shouldn’t have to be stuck with all this shit,” He says.

“Like fuck I don’t,” Richie argues, “and I’m not _ stuck _with it. Do you remember when you took me to crisis? You took care of me. You don’t have to be the strong one all the time, Eds. I’m here because I love you and that isn’t gonna change.” He presses his lips to Eddie’s forehead and doesn’t move; an arm slips around his waist, he can feel Eddie’s hand brush against the bare skin where his shirt rode up.

They’re a sight to behold, slowly swaying in the silence of the room. Before Eddie can say anything, Richie gives him an earbud and puts on a song he doesn’t know. _ I am a tall tree. I weep like a willow. My scars are hiding. My branches don’t show. _Eddie lets himself pretend, lets himself think of the alternate universe he’s thought up.

They would’ve gone to Prom together, after anxious asking and days spent agonizing over trivial things like tie colors or where to take pictures. He knows it would’ve been truly horrid — sweaty kids in a crowded space with awful music and teachers eyeing everyone to make sure no one’s channeling their inner Johnny Castle. But, he also knows, there would be this moment, one just like this. The lights would be neon pink, gleaming off the lenses of Richie’s obnoxiously big glasses (the ones Eddie remembers from photo albums) and hiding the blush on his own cheeks. He’d let his hands slide down a little lower than they should, just to see his reaction, and a song like this would come on because Richie would have requested it. They’d slow dance just like this. No care for the rest of the world, tangled up in each other’s arms, and drowning in the love they have for each other. 

He doesn’t mourn for the missed opportunity anymore, not now. In another world, growing up together and being high school sweethearts can be their love story. In this world, this is their love story, where everything feels soft and safe and Eddie can feel his heart bloom. The feeling could get him drunk, how everything floods his senses in a way that replaces his blood with a name — searing in his veins and spreading across his body with each beat.

“I don’t know how I ever tried to stop loving you,” Eddie says. He rests his head against Richie’s shoulder, humming softly at the feeling of his fingers curling in his hair. “I think it was inevitable.” He doesn’t think, he knows. Loving him was fated. He doesn’t believe in soulmates, not by a longshot, but sometimes he has to rub his eyes after reaching for the door because he swears he sees a red thread tied around his finger. He’ll find faith in whatever gods if they gave this love to him, a saving grace for the rest of his life.

“We were inevitable.” Richie mumbles, almost like an echo. _ So take me down easy. _ They slow dance for the rest of the song. _ Take me down easy. _ It’s a moment that, even years later and after whatever happens happens, Eddie will remember because it’s engraved into his bones. _ Let me land softly. _ He can be on his deathbed, old and sick and senile — he’ll remember. _ Back in your arms. _And, maybe if he’s lucky, he’ll still have Richie with him to remember it with.


	14. monsters and closets and milkshakes, oh my!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you have to listen to this fucking song on repeat for hours?” Eddie groans as it starts up again. It’s not that he hates Amy Winehouse (because he thinks she’s amazing), it’s that Richie hasn’t stopped playing this song for three days straight. He figured, at first, that he could ignore it; it’s a good song and the Live Lounge version is his favorite, after all. But, now, it’s been days and the past hour of drinking and hiding from visiting family in Maggie’s library has been nothing but Valerie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EFpVru2XYAAHx0j.jpg  
^this is the chart the Losers are talking about in the beginning, lemme know your thoughts bc i could probably debate this for hours. and if you haven’t seen Kingsman: Secret Service then at least watch the church fight scene with Colin Firth bc holy Fuck, 1. the sheer badassery of it all and 2. that’s what Mike’s talking about.  
also the fall semester is FINALLY over so i can actually focus on this more!! ik i’ve been kind of absent lately but with free time i’m hopin’ to change that. i appreciate y’all’s patience ♥️

**DECEMBER**

“The Quaker Oats man could duh-definitely throw some seriously huh-healthy hands. He’s on the ruh-wrong side. And Mr. Peanut is a puh-pimp, he’d probably juh-just pistol whip suh-someone.” The waitress passing by gives them weird glances, they pay no mind. All the Losers, save for Ben, are crowded around one half of the table and debating between each performer until it’s Ben’s turn. He’s been stressing about this poetry slam for weeks, teetering on the decision whether or not to commit. Every last one of them urged him to do it, along with the entirety of the poetry club he still meets with each week. After multiple incidents of voicing his regret for signing up, it was Beverly and Mike that made him show up tonight. Kind, soft words of comfort that the Losers will be at the table right in front of the stage, dead-center for him to see.

“HAMBURGER HELPER WILL LITERALLY PIMP SLAP SOMEONE WITH ITS ENTIRE BODY! IT’S JUST A GIANT HAND!” Beverly shrieks the instant the next poet is done, her feet flying out under the table and hitting Stan in the shins. He rolls his eyes, burrowing further into Mike’s side. “This graph is _ absurd_.” She throws back another drink and slowly, as if no one will notice, drags Bill’s drink closer to her. He pretends not to see that her bright red lips are wrapped around the straw when he reaches for it.

“I’d just use the Hamburger Helper as a glorified fleshlight and it’d be too traumatized to fight.” Richie gestures to Beverly’s empty glass, a silent question to see if she wants another, and she smiles. The silent, subtle language that seems to rebound between them like a psychic connection; they all have something like that with each of the Losers, a nod or quick once over means so much more than strangers could guess.

“You’d just _ what?_” Eddie just stares at him, a weird expression twisted into his face. Richie can still hear him when he goes to the bar, leaving him with just a bit more space while the next person is introduced.

“I’m choosing to ignore it,” Stan says softly.

“I’m with Stan.” Mike’s arm wraps around his boyfriend’s waist, hand disappearing under the table. No one bothers to comment, watching the small blush across Stan’s face begin to bloom. Bill takes his drink back from Beverly once Richie hands her the new one. He settles in next to Eddie again and everyone goes silent during the performance. There’s a sort of tension in the air throughout, each of them waiting and thinking up what they want to say. Bill’s the fastest.

“It’s a vuh-valid argument. I buh-bet the Hamburger Helper fleshlight would juh-just be like jerking off into a suh-sock.”

“I mean, if you’re going to take that route, you _ have _ to face-fuck Ronald McDonald. It’s the ultimate powermove,” Eddie says. He sees the glimmer in Richie’s eyes after he does. He can’t tell if it’s pride for the idea or dirty thoughts for the mention of face-fucking or both, letting his hand creep down to get an answer.

“Could probably use the fleslight method for the Pillsbury Doughboy while you’re at it.” His voice gets shrill at the last word, head snapping over toward Eddie when he feels his fingers dig into his inner thigh. _ Definitely the face-fucking mention, _he decides. He doesn’t move his hand and relishes in the small hitches of Richie’s breath during the next poem, not paying attention to anything else. He thinks it’s more beautiful.

“You could just curbstomp both of the M&M’s and they’d be out.” Beverly doesn’t even wait for the person to leave the stage entirely.

“The bigger question is, am I fighting them one by one or altogether?” Stan asks. He seems to have given up on staying out of the hypothetical, elbows on the table and leaning in closer. Mike’s hand stays in the middle of his shoulder blades, fingers dragging along the soft fabric of his sweater.

“Colin Firth Kingsman style, for sure,” He says.

“Okay, then the sheer trauma of seeing the Hamburger Helper get glove-fucked would throw them all off their game and you’d have some extra time.” Richie leans in too, about to delve into his precise battle plan until the next poet starts reading. The cycle keeps going. The poet finishes and then they decide to smash the Kool-Aid Man so no other mascots can move. Another poet reads and then they decide to turn the Pillsbury Doughboy into weird nunchucks. Another poet reads and then they decide to use Mr. Peanut’s cane to break Cap’n Crunch’s kneecaps. Eventually, strategy doesn’t matter as long as Ronald McDonald watches his allies die and the Green Giant isn’t a threat because Stan’s pretty sure he’s a pacifist.

When the announcer introduces Ben to the audience, it’s a cluster of reactions. Beverly, Richie, and Eddie hoot and holler at the top of their lungs, various assortments of _ that’s my boy_’s and _ have my baby_’s that make Ben’s cheeks turn pink under the bright spotlights; he tries not to smile as hard as he wants to and offers a small, slight wave in their direction. Bill, Mike, and Stan stay quiet, leaning forward with anticipation and nearly on the edge of their seats; they wave back to Ben.

With the view, they can see the nerves; how his fingers twitch trying to unlock his phone and the way his knees buckle like a belt. Richie starts to reach for his shoe, just to give a reassuring squeeze, but gets yanked back down into his seat by Stan. Their phones all buzz at the same time and Ben smiles, quick enough to be missed, when they realize he sent the poem for them to read along with.

**— messages: no!!!! (2) —**

**_— Haystack renamed the group: An Ode To My Losers — _ **

** _Haystack [8:32PM]:_ **

_ I know monsters that creep during the day, _

_ not scary and not dangerous, just sad. _

_ I know a werewolf that laughs lax and loud, _

_ as he throws his head back moonward and howls. _

_ Post-lunar amnesia takes jokes away. _

_ I know a leper that’s placebo-high, _

_ fresh from rehab for a plague that can’t die; _

_ nerves he can’t swallow like prescribed cure-alls. _

_ I know a vampire that starves from fright. _

_ She hides in shadows from the sunlight, _

_ baring silver fangs to fight wooden stakes. _

_ I know a phoenix that flies in the rain _

_ so close to the ground, he might be insane. _

_ Matches and ash, outrunning his rebirth. _

_ I know a banshee that wails through bookshelves, _

_ not knowing it’s a herald for himself _

_ made up of fury from absence and loss. _

_ I know an Arachne that can’t misplace _

_ his want to grow wings and soar from this space. _

_ He weaves his web, gives himself to the flies. _

_ Leper and wolf-man; fear of fleas and moons. _

_ Phoenix and spider; cues of flight and flame. _

_ Banshee and blood-bat; red fed and silenced. _

_ It’s easy to forget that they’re monsters, _

_ not scary and not dangerous, just sad. _

_ Maybe they were never monsters at all, _

_ the word given to them so young, _

_ fused with their skin in the years. _

_ Forced to wear it like armor, _

_ they can haunt the world together _

_ after they stop haunting themselves. _

The Losers are dumbfounded, silent with the applause that roars like lions while Ben disappears from the stage. They all pretend not to notice the tears in their eyes, not wanting to comment and only make the crying worse. Upon leaving the bar together, Ben’s showered with hugs and gushes of praise (even then, nobody mentions the tears). They drive to Beverly and Bill’s to have their own mini-Christmas — where Richie tries to catch Eddie under the mistletoe in the name of “the full Christmas experience,” where Eddie eventually gives up on pretending to be annoyed and kisses him, where Stan wonders why they have mistletoe hung up in the apartment in the first place, where Mike hands out presents early just so he won’t forget, where Ben answers every question about why some of them got described as certain things, where Bill sparks the mascot fight hypothetical again, and where Beverly can’t help but stop and think of how lucky they are to have each other.

They feel like monsters sometimes, sure.

But, for the first time in a while, they feel like that doesn’t have to be a bad thing.

★★★

“Do you have to listen to this fucking song on repeat for hours?” Eddie groans as it starts up again. It’s not that he hates Amy Winehouse (because he thinks she’s amazing), it’s that Richie hasn’t stopped playing this song for _ three days straight. _He figured, at first, that he could ignore it; it’s a good song and the Live Lounge version is his favorite, after all. But, now, it’s been days and the past hour of drinking and hiding from visiting family in Maggie’s library has been nothing but Valerie.

“It makes me feel sexy,” Richie shrugs. His legs brush against the soft rug and he makes himself stand; they’ve finally run out of drinks. The empty bottles in his hands clink and Eddie grabs the hem of his sweater, pulling him down into a kiss. Little things like this, things he couldn’t do for so long, are his favorite. He can learn to love the taste of beer if it’s on Richie’s tongue.

“You’re always sexy.” He kisses him again, feeling him smile against his lips and ignoring the eye roll that Ren definitely doesn’t try to hide. “Don’t let that go to your head, asshole.”

“Too late!” Richie disappears into the hall, leaving Eddie and Ren with the music. He changes the song to something else. Ren gives him a look that means she’s thankful, but it turns into something else.

“You guys are cute,” She says. It doesn’t sound right. The moonlight smile trembles and halts into a straight line of nothing. Her face falls. Something in her looks like it shatters and Eddie can’t ask what’s wrong, there are already tears are rolling down her cheeks. There aren’t a lot of sights in the world that make him scared now. He’s (mostly) gotten over the fears that his mother instilled in him. Pills and doctors and blood, it doesn’t bother him nearly as much anymore.

But, Ren?

The look on her face?

It terrifies him.

He has his arms around her before the quiet ends. He can _ feel _ when it ends, if all the noise in the room were silenced, he would still be able to tell when the strangled sob escapes Ren’s throat. The sob rips through him, a sharp pain in his ears even with her head nuzzled into the fabric of his shirt. Sadness sounds wrong for her. He’s only ever seen anger, neon like her hair and laced with sarcasm. She’s like Richie in that regard. The first time he ever saw Richie cry — _ really _ cry — felt wrong _ , _like he was intruding on something he should never see. He feels like that now. Ren is the goddess of war cries and lit braziers but all he sees are empty battlefields and sparse plumes of smoke.

“I’m here,” He says. His hand runs through her hair, still choppy and short. Her tears soak into his shirt, it feels like blood warm against his skin; he almost wants to pretend that it is, something to think about instead of the sadness. Ren keeps crying. The music plays, the streetlamps gleam through the blinds, and she keeps crying. She pulls herself into his lap, arms wrapping around his neck and humming, just for a moment, when his wrap around her waist. _ She’s scared, _he realizes. The fear grabs hold of him too. What could make her so afraid that she’s grateful he’s holding her?

“Eddie,” She cries, brittle and thin. She can’t make herself say anything more, just broken strings of his name littered with sobs. He waits until she can find the words.

“I’m here.” He keeps saying it, eventually daring to tell her that it’s okay. He doesn’t know if it is, but he’ll be damned if he won’t defy death itself to make it that way. In the heavy, anticipating silence, Eddie realizes that he loves Ren. She’s always been family, now he can feel it carved into his skin, too distracted with worry to remember that he’s always wanted a sister.

“Eddie,” She says again. She picks her head up and looks at him, face aglow with streetlights and tears. He waits, breathless. “I just…” There’s a pause, just for a moment. “I’m gay.” This time, Ren waits. Shallow breathing, puffy eyes, and smeared eyeliner. She just looks at him. Suddenly the silence isn’t heavy. Eddie’s shoulders drop, the tension in them gone. He’s _ relieved, _putting a hand on her cheek and smiling so softly. She shuts her eyes, leaning into his touch, and sighs. She isn’t scared anymore.

“That’s okay,” Eddie says. Ren smiles too, wiping the tears from her eyes and scooting off his lap. She stays close, just inches from where he’s sitting.

“I know.” She tries, desperately, to laugh but it comes out shaky. “I still kind of wanna puke.” He shoves the small, plastic trash can toward her and, this time, she does laugh.

“I understand the feeling.”

“Man, you had it so much worse than me.” Ren sets the trash can down beside her, grabbing a tissue from the box on the side table. “You probably think I’m being ridiculous.”

“No I don’t.” Eddie frowns, shaking his head, and Ren looks confused. “It’s a lot to deal with. People like to write it off as no big deal and maybe _ sometimes _ it isn’t. If it scares you, it scares you. You don’t have to be living in a sob story to feel like that.”

“That’s the thing though, I know my family doesn’t care about Richie but I...” She trails off, lips pursing. Her head drops, she holds it in her hands and tries to breathe. “I don’t wanna let them down. Both of their kids, you know? I don’t want them to think—”

“They won’t blame you, Ren.” He puts his hand on her knee and squeezes, she glances up at him.

“When’d you know you loved him?” She gestures to the door lazily and pushes small curls out of her face. The eyeliner is on the backs of her hands. The question catches him off guard but he knows why she’s asking. She looks _ vulnerable. _

“It was after I drove him to the hospital, he stayed in my dorm with me and we just laid together. His clothes smelled like sandalwood and his breath smelled like nicotine. He was holding me and all I could think about was how terrified I was that I’d never get to feel that again.” Eddie’s heart swells in his chest. He’s never told anyone about it; Richie doesn’t even know, they’ve never talked about how they knew they were in love because they just know they are. He thinks he always loved him, even though he didn’t. He knows, deep down, that he probably loved him before that moment but it burned through him so brightly then that he couldn’t think about anything else. Ren grabs his hand as if she realizes what he’s thinking. He knows the topic scares her too.

“He told me when he knew, said something about a presentation. I don’t really remember why but he said it fucked you up. You had a panic attack so bad you had to leave the room.” He knows, immediately, what she’s talking about. It feels so far away. The music sounds louder somehow. “He took you to the diner a few hours later and he didn’t ask you about it because he knew it was a bigger deal than you let on,”

“He actually said that’s when he knew you were gay. But, he also said how thankful you looked when he didn’t pry and how relieved you were when he cracked jokes in quiet moments instead of letting it stay silent. He’s good at that.” The corners of her lips curl, the smallest smile, as if she’s remembering something else. Eddie’s sure he knows why she asked. He thinks he might hear footsteps, but doesn’t bother to look away from her.

“You sat at that hill and talked for a while, he always says the same fuckin’ thing and I can’t remember it. You said something that just hit him so hard he felt like he couldn’t breathe. He called me after cried about it.” Her voice dwindles, the smile does too. There’s something else she wants to say.

“What is it?” Eddie asks.

“I think I’m in love too.” She’s soft and careful, he knows it’s the first time she’s ever said it out loud and he pretends that he hasn’t already guessed.

“It’s okay to be in love,” He says. Ren breaks all over again. It’s quiet, choked sobs and shaky breaths, until the door swings open and Richie’s standing there with more beer. He stops when he sees her.

“What’d I miss?” He tries to sound like he’s joking, but the worry comes through anyway. Ren sniffs, grabbing a bottle from him when he sits down.

“I’m a lesbian.” A smile blooms and she laughs, but it doesn’t sound real with the tears still falling. Richie just looks at her, eyes shining so bright and features so soft. Eddie can see the pride write itself across his face, almost sewn into his skin. Even when he realizes how emotional the situation is, even when he starts to think of a joke to make it go away, he’s still proud of her.

“Oh thank god, I thought you were pregnant.”

“Beep beep, asshole.” Eddie hits him in the arm, biting back the smile he has.

“Yeah, that was shitty.” He opens a bottle for himself and slips his arm around Eddie’s waist. He nudges Ren’s knee with his foot. “Are you alright, though?

“I’m alright, man.” She takes a sip of hers and messes up Eddie’s hair. “Your boyfriend is my favorite person on the planet. Better lock him down for good and propose before I do.”

“I should be offended but I agree with you.” Richie lays his head on Eddie’s shoulder, neither of them acknowledge the last part. They don’t have to, both see the blush creeping across their cheeks and Ren relishes in it before Richie opens his mouth again. “So, tell me, does Kitty know you’re in love with her?”

“No, our beloved Kitty-Kat is totally in the dark,” Ren frowns. She isn’t surprised that he knows exactly what’s happening. Eddie, however, is awestruck just like he always is when he remembers just how well the two know each other. He shouldn’t be, because they’re so goddamn similar and care for one another so much, but he is — until his mind jumps to something else.

“Wait, your best friend’s name is actually Kitty?”

“How the fuck did you know she’s my best friend?”

“Seems to be a Tozier tradition, you know, fallin’ for friends.” He shrugs and Ren rolls her eyes, but Richie pinches him. He knows he’s right.

“Her real name’s Katherine.” Ren says, she reaches for another bottle and Eddie can’t remember watching her finish the first one. “She fuckin’ hates that nickname but she still lets me use it.” And Eddie bursts into a fit of laughter. He sides ache and his cheeks hurt and he can’t stop. Ren just stares at him, confused and a little bit alarmed. Richie smiles, even though he’s confused too. Eddie grabs her face and looks her right in the eyes.

“Listen to me when I tell you this,” He says. Richie’s eyes go wide and he clamps his hand over his mouth to muffle his own laughter. He knows too. “She absolutely feels the same way.”

“How do you know?” Ren frowns at him and he pats Richie’s cheek.

“Because this dumbass started calling me Spaghetti and I still let him do it.”

★★★

“I want a milkshake so bad,” Eddie whines. He would quite literally sell his soul for the drive to the campus diner to only be ten minutes. “Stupid commute and stupid snow.”

“Don’t blame the nor'easter you ate all the ice cream last week.”

“I’m not, I’m just blaming it for preventing me from getting more.” He sighs, burrowing further into the cushions. Richie doesn’t say anything else, just gets up and disappears from the living room. It’s all dimmed lights and emptied bottles and used-up ashtrays, hazy air and slow music and couch creases. Ren gone for a party, Maggie gone for an extra shift, and Went gone for a trip; the house to themselves means celebrating the new year how they choose.

This time it’s Laurent-Perrier and Purple Kush, crossfading with the flickering colors of the TV. Eddie watches the patterns change for a long time, only pulled from his thoughts when the sound of the blender cuts through the music. He follows the sound to the kitchen and finds a pile made up of Richie’s coat, scarf, boots, and gloves on the floor with melting snow. He doesn’t have the time to say anything about it before his eyes find Richie, putting whipped cream on top of a homemade milkshake, and there’s something else to focus on.

“Where in the sweet fuck was that ice cream before? I swear to god I looked everywhere.” Eddie frowns, arms folding across his chest and all his weight shifting to one side. He _scoured _the freezer the entire week.

“The convenience store, I went out and got some.” Richie keeps ignoring his eyes and rage flares up in Eddie’s bones.

“You drove to the store,” He says.

“No, man, I’m too fucked up. You’d kill me and I rather like being alive right now.” He doesn’t look up from his masterpiece, a strawberry milkshake the perfect color pink and a mountain of whipped cream. He’s right, of course, Eddie could damn near strangle him at the thought and the anger dies at the implications he’s making. He decides not to dwell on the bigger one, that there are times he doesn’t like being alive, because they both know. He dwells on the second, far smaller one.

“You...walked?”

“Yeah.”

“During a blizzard?”

“Mhm,” Richie grabs a jar of cherries from the bag and it pops as it opens.

_ “Why?” _

“You said you wanted a milkshake.” He shrugs, putting the cherry on top and then taking one for himself. Richie’s being Richie — trying and failing to tie the cherry stem with his tongue — and Eddie can only stare. Nothing else matters, not right now. He loves him and he wants him and nothing else matters. _ You deserve the kind of love that makes you question why you thought you never needed it at all. _The words drown him, seas that slosh down his throat and pool in his lungs; he thinks he might be holding his breath, he thinks he might taste the salt water. Even still, Eddie can only stare. Richie gives up on the cherry stem and his eyebrows furrow, confused at the attention.

He’s used to Eddie staring at him. It happens more than either of them will ever notice or mention. Sometimes it scares him, makes him think that Eddie’s trying to memorize him like he’s afraid he’ll disappear. Sometimes it elates him, makes him aware that Eddie is just happy to look at him. Most times it just amazes him, he doesn’t know how someone can and does love him so deeply. But, this is different staring. Not stolen glances or gazes in total awe, it’s something new. Nobody’s looked at him like that before. He doesn’t know if anybody’s looked at anyone else like that either; it’s an emotion he can barely place.

Overwhelming and earth shattering and fantastic. Something so strong, radiating from each shallow breath. Richie couldn’t ignore it if he tried. Eddie looks at him like he’s a world wonder or work of art and, for a moment, Richie forgets that he’s human — not hung up in the Louvre for all to see. Acrylic paint blood and golden frame bones and canvas cotton skin, the most famous painting in history to be cherished and loved for ages. He thinks, for an exhilarating moment, that Eddie must be the artist. But, then, he’s human again and can’t take it any longer.

“What? Do you not want strawberry? I got peanut butter and chocolate too if you want those inst—”

“Richie, take your pants off.” Eddie interrupts, voice steady and firm, serious like the expression on his face.

“Wait, what?” His eyes shoot wide open and he could damn near choke. Eddie walks over to him with a determination to be marveled, grabbing fistfuls of his silky shirt and crowding him against the counter. He thinks the container of sprinkles falls over and spills across the floor, he doesn’t care. He cares about _ him — _ cherry spit and champagne lips. Kissing him is what salvation could only dream of being. It doesn’t stay sweet for long, raging like a bright, burning hellfire of wandering hands and quiet gasps. _ This could be my religion, _ Eddie thinks. Oh, how he’d worship every day.

“Bedroom. _ Now._” He mumbles against his lips, not wanting to pull away long enough to say more. The trip down the stairs is stumbling and stuttering, neither daring to let go of the other and unable to keep their hands to themselves. Their door slams and Eddie’s being hoisted up on the dresser, legs hanging from Richie’s hips while his hands fumble to find the buttons on his clothes. He’s impatient, too worked up to wait. His mind is a vinyl record scratched, looping and skipping the same two words. _ Need him. Need him. Need him. _ The sweet sound of ripping fabric and buttons flying onto the floor is his instrumental.

“I liked that shirt,” Richie pouts. He shrugs it off his shoulders and lets it hit the floor with a small shift of Eddie’s legs.

“We can get another.” He grabs the bottom hem of his t-shirt and then the record shatters. He pushes Richie away, mouth agape. “Oh my _ god, _I forgot your Christmas present.” He could slap himself. Months and months of waiting only to forget until New Years. Richie’s confusion doesn’t dissolve.

“Eds, you gave it to me already.” He’d never shrieked so loudly upon getting it either. It took scheming on an entirely new level, planning the entire thing in secrecy for weeks. Maggie and Went paid for the plane tickets to and from, Eddie paid for the concert tickets, and Beverly and Bill paid for the hotel rooms. The four of them flew out to California for the My Chemical Romance reunion show and flew right back the next day, a night to revive the emo phases all but Eddie had gone through in middle school. Richie still can’t find a way to thank him properly for it. But, in Eddie’s mind, seeing the teary eyes and giant, shining smile while he screamed the words and danced like a moron was more than enough.

“No, no, no. Your actual present,” Eddie says. Richie only shrugs, closing the space between them and kissing along his jaw. It’s intoxicating, firing off every nerve in his brain. He hums, pressing his face into the crook of Eddie’s neck, and his tongue grazes his hot skin.

“You got me enough. This can be my present,” He says softly. His hands slip under his shirt, still cold from the blizzard wayfare. “Hearing you whine, looking so pretty for me.” Richie’s words always melt him, filthier as time goes by, too caught up in the moment to wonder if he needs a filter. It starts with praise, reminders that he has his heart, how he’s stolen it so brilliantly. Eddie manages, barely, to push him away again. He starts to slip his shirt over his head and Richie nearly keels over.

“Wait,” He says, “_is _this my present? Because I was totally jok—”

“Shut up, Rich.” Eddie tosses his shirt toward the floor, not caring where it lands. Richie goes still, golden eyes falling on the tattoo embedded in Eddie’s ribcage. He’s only still for so long, drawn closer and running his thumb over the inked skin as if not believing it’s truly there. Something in him _ breaks _ when he realizes it’s permanent. Eddie can see it, an entirety of chaos that crumbles like a glass dome in his eyes. “I got it after that day in the car, I saw the playlist name.” It only makes it worse, Richie takes a sharp breath and it looks as though his soul is bursting at the seams of his body, ready to fly from him and meet the stars.

“Is the speech bubble...” He can’t finish the thought.

“For Trashmouth,” Eddie whispers. He can hear him laugh first, a small burst of giggles that he swears he could get drunk on. He tries to count the times they kiss, losing track after each one. The warm, wet feeling smearing against their cheeks, Richie’s hands shake before they find Eddie’s waist. They can both taste the salt. For real this time, no metaphorical seas.

“You’re such a sap.” Eddie smiles, leaning back against the dresser mirror to brush away the tears. Richie’s eyes, red and puffy, always look the most beautiful after he cries. Maybe because it’s not a sight often seen or maybe because it makes them shine brighter, Eddie can’t tell.

“Let me be emotional about loving you,” He says. But the sweetness, once more, doesn’t stay for long and flickers in white hot flames. They don’t know what does it, fueling the fire so fast. Shedded clothes and needy touches, Richie leaves evidence behind wherever his lips roam. Now he’s the artist, Eddie’s the portrait he paints with explosions of galaxy bruises. He’ll make him feel like a goddamn masterpiece; nipping and sucking at creamy skin, coaxing moans from his parted lips. He almost doesn’t hear the words that Eddie breathes, almost doesn’t notice the way his hand is pulling open a drawer and rummaging through. The almosts die when Richie sees what he grabbed.

He’s known they were there, he’d have to have been an idiot not to. It’s not like Eddie tried to hide it, coming home after leaving when he saw him doing laundry — a plastic bag full of condoms and lube that’s contents ended up stashed in nightstands and dresser drawers. Regardless, after weeks of being reminded each day he’d look for clean clothes, the sight stops him dead. His hands finding Eddie’s shoulders, he notices the freckles, splattered like paint, and could spend the rest of his life getting lost in them. 

“Are you sure?” His voice gets lower, softer than before.

“What do you think?” Eddie smiles, wicked and sinful, he reaches down and slips his hand beneath the waistband of Richie’s underwear. His breath hitches, nodding furiously as if to shake off the shock.

“Okay, yeah, let’s go.”

“Mhm,” He kisses him again, savoring the taste — not cherries anymore, not champagne, it’s just _ him. _The hellfire dwindles too, awkward movements toward their bed with the realization that they haven’t done this before. Well, not together. Richie can see the recognition in Eddie’s face.

“Everything’s your call, you know.” He sits toward the edge, legs folded and arm holding his weight. There’s hardly any space, ready to get lost in one another until neither know who’s who.

“Is it?”

“Always, darlin’, say the word and I’ll do everything you want.” Richie’s smile calms the nerves, burning them away like dead leaves. Eddie’s face burns with them.

“I dunno what you like to do,” He says softly. Maybe they can get better at talking about sex the same way they did with feelings. He hopes it won’t take as long, the fear of that spurs him. “I want you to fuck me, if you’re into that, you know? I think—”

“_If _I’m into that?”

“Fuck off, I’m just trying to be nice.”

“Doesn’t sound like you.” Richie presses a quick kiss to his nose, ducking out of the way in time to avoid the pillow Eddie swings toward his head. The humor waters down the uneasiness, hearing the description of what to do to prepare is the only reminder he has that he doesn’t know what he’s doing; he listens to it all, coming back from the shower with no need for a towel to wrap around his waist. There’s music now. Richie’s hands are coated with lube, warming it between his palms. The thin, obnoxiously patterned boxers and pale dark of the room are the only things hiding him from Eddie’s greedy gaze.

“Where do you want me?”

“Anywhere’s fine, just lie on your back and spread thems gorgeous legs for me, baby.” The southern belle accent is thick and strong, Eddie knows he’s nervous from the exaggeration. He grins, almost beaming, and they think they’ve found their perfect match. It’s not the first time, they know that, but they’re drowning again. Eddie wants to ask how many times Richie’s pissed someone off with his humor in bed, how many times he’s had someone make a face or comment on how strange he is. Richie wants to tell him that it’s happened a lot, that there’ve been too many people who insulted his jokes and ended up changing their minds about him on the way back to a bedroom. Neither of them have to say a word, because all Eddie does is roll his eyes and find a southern belle accent of his own.

“Thank you kindly.” He smiles, heart pounding in his chest. With anyone else, he would feel embarrassed. With anyone else, he’d be anxious. But, it’s Richie — _ his _ Richie.

“If you don’t like how it feels just tell me. I’m gonna go slow.” This side of Richie distracts him, always does. The concerned, nurturing sweetheart that he doesn’t let most others see; a direct conflict with the trashmouth that he’s known as. Eddie doesn’t have time to think of anything else besides the sudden, new feeling when Richie’s first finger pushes in. It takes getting used to, each drawn out movement a prayer, but Richie's careful, waiting and looking for approval before adding any more. Eddie decides he loves it, how he's reduced to a whining, moaning mess.

“Fuck, I love your hands.” The praises don’t stop. He couldn’t shut up if he wanted to, going on with strings of curses and whimpers. He knows that Richie likes to hear it, the endless streams of _ you always take care of me _ and _ don’t stop touching me _ and _ I love you so fucking much. _“I’m ready, Rich. Please, I—”

“How do you wanna do this?” He asks. Even in the dark, Eddie can find the pink blush across his face grabbing the condom and rolling it on. He realizes he’s never thought about it. Well, he _ has, _it just changes a lot. When they're in the car, he pictures himself riding Richie in the backseat. When they’re in the kitchen, he pictures himself bent over the counter. When they’re on campus, he pictures himself being fucked against the wall in a janitor’s closet. But, here? Now? The words leave his mouth without any second thought.

“I wanna look at you,” He says. Richie only nods in answer, lips pulled into a small smile as he moves. Eddie thinks he blacks out for a few moments, the sight and feeling of Richie on top of him too much for his brain to handle until he feels a hand on his cheek.

“You’re sure? If you aren’t ready we don’t have to do this.”

“Richie, I swear to god, if you don’t fuck me into this mattress I’m gonna move in with Bill and Bev.”

“C’mon, Eds. You know you couldn’t do that, you’d miss my huge dick and move back after a few hours.” He grins at him, curls dangling past his face. He takes a shallow breath and slowly sinks into him. Eddie can feel his heart in his throat, legs wrapping tight around Richie’s waist and fingers digging into the sheets. They don’t move a lot, fighting to stay still until he nods that he’s okay. Richie pulls back and eases forward in an unhurried, steady pace and his hands find their way to Eddie’s, fingers interlocking above his head.

“More.” Eddie rasps, the waves of his hair ruined against the pillow with each thrust of Richie’s hips. “I want—I need—”

“Hey,” His thumb brushes against the back of his hand, “it’s okay. I’m not going anywhere. Let me make you feel good, baby.” A reassuring squeeze. _ I have you_, it means. The pace picks up, faster and deeper. The room blooms with the sound, electrified. Skin on skin and the smell of sweat, low music and the creaking bed. Eddie’s mind is a beautiful radio silence, unable to cling to anything that isn’t the feeling of Richie fucking him.

“_Richie,_” He moans. He makes it sound like a song.

“Shit, Eds. Keep saying my name like that.” He lets go of his hands, rearranging himself so one of Eddie’s legs is over his shoulder and a pillow under his lower back. The new angle sends a spew of new curses from Eddie’s lips when Richie’s hips snap forward, _ hard_.

“Fuck, Rich. God, fuck, right there. Don’t fucking stop. Fucking touch me.” He doesn’t need to be told twice, hand reaching to find his dick and start jerking him off in rhythm with the fast pace. They’re a clustered mess of noise; sporadic, choppy gasps and the choruses of _ uh uh uh’s _ pouring from Eddie’s mouth. He could start crying, so overwhelmed by the feeling that he can feel the tears prickling in his eyes. He knows it can’t be long. Richie knows too, eyes stuck on the daydream of Eddie laid out for him — face flushed, lips parted, looking absolutely _ wrecked. _He worships him with his hands, his lips, his teeth.

“Richie.” He breathes, on the brink. “Richie, I’m—” He’s cut off with a kiss, the rhythm suddenly getting sloppy. Richie’s thumb brushes against his bottom lip and he sucks on the tip of it, the tears blur his vision.

“Come for me baby.” He coos, low voice dripping with the honey from his eyes. It’s all it takes, that goddamn voice and the taste of his skin. A strangled noise escapes his throat and his back arches up from the mattress. Every nerve goes haywire, a fire blazing beneath his skin that could blister him from the inside out. He thinks he’s talking, his words distant and echoing; they’re what make Richie’s hips stutter and arms give out beneath him with his own orgasm. He lies his head on Eddie’s chest, trying to find words or a breath of air to bring him back down to earth. It doesn’t end up being either, just the sticky feeling of sweat and cum pressed between them. He gets up to take the condom off. Or, at least, Eddie is pretty sure that’s why; he couldn’t feel less real, only reminded with a half-hearted squeeze on his heel when Richie walks past, arms full of clean clothes.

“Wanna shower?” He glances back at him, still flat against the bed and staring up at the ceiling. His head tilts over to find the source of the sound as if he’s still not all there — and he isn’t. But, he makes himself get up, body worn and spent. The shower reels him in again. Water slithering down his back, raspberry scented shampoo, and the way Richie’s fingers work it into his hair. He’s surprised he’s still standing.

“Hey,” Richie presses a soft kiss to his nose, “you okay?”

“Mhm, just lucky.”

“Lucky?”

“Yeah.” If Richie expects more of an answer, he doesn’t press. Eddie rinses out his hair and tries to count the marks on his chest; the constellations he could make out of them still don’t rival the freckles that Richie has. He tries anyway, hardly paying attention when the water shuts off. Now he feels real, poking into one of the purple spots and getting a dull ache as a response. Everything carves itself into the walls of his heart, every touch and sound and sight. Pulling one of Richie’s shirts over his head, he thinks he could die and still be happy. Crawling into bed with him, how his arms snake around his waist and his face nuzzles into his neck, he knows that he could.

“I should make you milkshakes more often,” Richie says. Eddie can only laugh, fingers curling around the soft fabric of the covers.

“It was mostly the whole you-walking-through-a-blizzard part.”

“Well, in that case, did I ever tell you how I fought off a bear on the way to the liquor store yesterday?”

“Honey, you could just use your blinkers when you change lanes and I’ll wanna fuck you.” He’s not kidding either. Even if he hadn’t already thought of having sex with him 24/7, there’s no way in hell he won’t now. He thinks it might, somehow, be even better when they’re not high or tipsy anymore.

“I always use my blinkers. I’m not an animal, Eds.” Richie doesn’t get the insinuation he’s making, a serious expression on his face.

“I know.”

_ “Oh.” _His cheeks burn red and Eddie can see the want to make a joke, as well as the decision not to. He burrows closer into his side and sighs, a smile tugging on his lips.

“C’mere, you comfy dumbass.” He realizes the music is still on, lulling from the speaker, and doesn’t have the energy to turn it of nor ask him to. He doesn’t want to leave this bed. He doesn’t want to leave his side. Not now, not later, not ever. He gets to wake up next to him in the morning and listen to him ramble about his strange dreams. He gets to make him breakfast while he sleeps in and watch a smile unfurl on his face when he sees. He gets to hear him whisper his name between linen sheets and lulling music like this. He gets to memorize him. He gets to know every pitch, every rise and fall, every curve of him. He gets to know his poems and sonnets by heart. He gets to tell him that he’s not a sob story, that catastrophes don’t run in his veins and tragedies aren’t embedded in his bones. He gets to let him know that he’s a world wonder all his own.

He is irrevocably, undeniably in love with him.

The feeling hits him like a bolt from the blue and, this time, he can say it.

“I found a soulmate in you, Richie,” Eddie whispers. The way the curves of his body fit so perfectly into the slants of his feels heavenmade. He knows the universe gave him this, a gift he was always meant to cherish. Richie just stares at him, eyes swirling with something he doesn’t quite know. “I don’t think those words are that big and heavy anymore. I think they’re true.”

“Eds, I...”

“You don’t have to say anything. I know that’s a lot and it’s probably even more when you’re hearing it instead of reading it. I just wanted to tell you,” He says. Richie still stares, whatever feeling he has is overwhelming. For a moment, fleeting but terrifying, Eddie worries that he’s said too much. But, then, Richie kisses him — soft, sweet, slow — and mumbles against his lips.

“I think they’re true too.”


	15. mercury must be in gatorade or some shit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things have been good for a while, so it’s both a jarring shift and an unsurprising probability. The commercial breaks are over and it’s back to their regularly scheduled program when Sonia finds a way to make her presence known from miles away. She calls the instant they walk through the door, out all morning to get Ren to play practice and grab groceries from Maggie’s list. Eddie can’t even take his shoes off, hands fumbling to find a new Derry area-coded number displayed on his screen. Richie can tell who it is before a word gets out, watching him disappear outside again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holyshit this ended up way longer than i anticipated, sorry it took a bit ya boi is still goin' through it  
next chapter's gonna be decently long too but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

**JANUARY**

Things have been good for a while, the best that it’s been in months (maybe even years). There’s a little more than a week until the spring semester starts up, fueled by the jittery anticipation for getting their degrees in just a short span of time; even the bittersweet aspects of growing up seem to recede like waves from the shore. There doesn’t seem to be an area of life that isn’t teeming with joy — Bill’s book was picked up by a publisher, Mike got accepted into med school, Stan’s due to hear from the law schools he applied to any day now, and it’s only the second week of the month.

Things have been good for a while, so it’s both a jarring shift and an unsurprising probability. The commercial breaks are over and it’s back to their regularly scheduled program when Sonia finds a way to make her presence known from miles away. She calls the instant they walk through the door, out all morning to get Ren to play practice and grab groceries from Maggie’s list. Eddie can’t even take his shoes off, hands fumbling to find a new Derry area-coded number displayed on his screen. Richie can tell who it is before a word gets out, watching him disappear outside again. The air is frigid, the wind bites, and the snow hasn’t melted since the blizzard; Eddie can see his breath when he talks.

“Ma, how many times are you gonna keep doing this?”

“I know you didn’t take a class over break.” Her tone is the ice that crackles beneath his feet and, if he isn’t careful, he’ll fall. He’s still as a statue, worried that she can somehow see him. “How could you lie to your mother like that? Just to spend the holidays alone. Where’s the joy in that? That’s a terrible thing to do, Eddie-bear.” She tumbles on and he doesn’t listen, trying to think of how she could possibly know he’s been lying the entire four years he’s been at school. He wonders if she’s always known, but she would never have let it go if she had.

“I didn’t spend it alone,” He blurts out. The words stop her mid-guilt trip and the silence echoes. He can hear the pacing from behind the door. “I spent it with Richie.” Why stop now? He knows that she hates him, that the two weeks in Wildwood before he ran from her was all it took for that hatred to set in.

“I assume that’s who you’re living with now.”

“Why wouldn’t I live with my boyfriend, Ma?” The hearth that’s so long been clean of ash starts to flicker with the heat of embers Eddie didn’t know still burned. A traveler’s only source of warmth, he doesn’t know where he’s going yet.

“Don’t you say that,” Sonia says. It’s quick and harsh and shrill. He knows that if she were standing in front of him, she’d bring her hand across his face; he breathes it in like smoke.

“Sonia,” He warns, “tell me why you called.” He stands his ground and the ice doesn’t shatter. There are no lines he hasn’t crossed and, should she draw new ones, he’ll leap past those too. She hesitates, just barely, and he can hear it. Something fleeting fuzzies his mind, a hopeful idea that maybe she’ll apologize. He knows better than to indulge it.

“You need to come home. I’m sick and I need someone to take care of me for the next few months.” She uses her most pitiful, pathetic voice and he knows it well. It used to work, able to tighten the chains keeping him in the house, but it doesn’t anymore. The fire’s burned and melted the chains, a molten pool of steel.

“Even if I believed you, I’m not coming back.”

“Eddie-bear, you’re sick too. You do so much better when you’re home with me.”

“I’M NOT SICK!” He yells at her. In the quiet he can hear Richie’s pacing stop and knows they’ll have to talk about it. He’d rather ignore it this time. The fire is raging, ready to consume him, and he wants just a little longer to pretend it isn’t dangerous. “I’m not fucking sick. I was _ never _sick, get it through your goddamn head. If you fucking loved me, you’d understand.”

“You’re getting worked up, you know it can make your asthma flare up,” She says softly.

“Don’t,” He warns again. For another moment, there’s silence and he can hear the pacing start again. His fingers graze the soft fabric of his hoodie and it’s enough. It’s Richie’s. The tears well up, the cold makes them sting, and he cries. “I need you to listen.” Eddie’s voice is brittle, head leaning back against the door as if it could give him some kind of strength. The sky is dark already and an unstable breath vies to find his lungs. “Without interrupting me or making any decisions halfway through, I need you to do that. Please.” _ My last ditch effort, _ he thinks.

“Okay.” Sonia seems wary to agree, but she still does. The courage takes a long time to find. Eddie knows, of course he knows, that this is a fight he can’t win. He’s been fighting it for years and he’s tired, but there’s a last part of his arsenal he hasn’t gotten to use yet and wants to try it before ending this war.

“I remember the look on your face when I used to ask about Dad. You’d get upset, this really broken sheen in your eyes, and I stopped asking about him once I saw. It’s the only thing that reminded me you were a person and not a monster,” He admits. Adrenaline jumpstarts his heart. He’s dreamt of doing this for a while; a myriad of nights in his bedroom spent imagining what it’d be like to finally tell her off, to finally let her see how much she’s hurt him. “I know losing him really fucked you up and I’m sorry you had to see someone you love slip away like that. I’m sorry you couldn’t do anything to stop it, but you let it destroy you and that’s where my sympathy ends.” The tears are in conflict, not knowing whether to freeze when they hit the ground or evaporate off his skin with the heat of the fire.

“You took it out on me. I still can’t figure out if it was the trauma of watching the cancer get worse or if you knew you were doing it. Sometimes I don’t care which one, my feelings behind it are the same.” His voice shakes, standing on uneven ground, and he tries not to think too much. Thinking is bad. Thinking leads to more anger or unearned optimism. He doesn’t want either, he knows no amount of rage will change what she did and no amount of hope will change her now. He can only be grateful she’s not cutting in.

“You spent almost my entire life killing me. You made me terrified of myself, scaring me until I couldn’t pass a mirror without flinching away from the reflection. I don’t think I can ever forgive you for that.” The flames burn away the tears. There’s no cold left for Eddie to feel. It’s not glacial outside anymore, not to him. He thinks the snow around him might thaw, maybe he’ll melt a hole through the ice and fall right through. He hears its deafening shatter with the sob that cuts through his throat. “But I want to so badly,”

“I wanted you to care about me and accept me even when I wasn’t the perfect son because I was never going to be. I wanted you to be a real mom to me because I need—” Air gets stuck in his chest. He doesn’t want to plead, that’s not what this is. “I _ deserved _ one and all you’ve fucking done is hurt me.” How well he knows himself shoos away the want to rattle on. It’s harder than he thought it would be. There’s a terrifying second where the fire is so hot he swears it’s burning him alive, that he’s tied to a stake and condemned by a crowd. But the silence brings him back; the long pause that, to him, sounds like his footsteps across a frozen body of water. He falls through the ice and starts drowning.

“I really love him, Mom. He makes me happy.” There’s nothing, only the soft noise from Sonia sniffling on the other end of the line. Bubbles float up toward the surface, but he stays deep in darkness. Shaking his head, he scoffs and the fire lights again. Elements battle in the absence of conversation and the inferno wins, boiling the water he fights until the lake is empty. He sits at the bottom of it and the fire gets snuffed out.

“Eddie…” She starts to beg, trailing off and unable to think of a single word more.

“I don’t want to hear from you again.” He says, then clicks the call to an end. The door slams behind him, he doesn’t care about the volume, and Richie has him in an instant. Tears and whispered consolations, they find their way beneath their sheets and don’t let go of one another.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” He’s careful, not wanting to send him spiraling further. His fingers brush against the flush skin of his cheeks.

“No,” He burrows further into his arms, “just distract me.” They’ve had this routine, unspoken and steady, since the moment they met and they’re good at it. Richie’s jokes and stories, Eddie’s rants and rambles; it’s easy to bring the other’s mind to something else. Sometimes they talk about it later but, most times, it stays unacknowledged, the only exceptions are big things — this is a big thing.

“One day we’re gonna get our own place. It won’t be very nice, we’ll be broke as fuck, but it’ll be ours. We’ll spend days painting, listening to 1940s jazz how you like and getting into a paint war that’ll one-hundred percent end in sex on the living room floor.” A smile blooms across Richie’s face. This type of distraction is their favorite, talks of finding their way and making their own traditions. It looks the same in Eddie’s head every time: dark wooden bookshelves too full to fit more, the smell of self-ground espresso beans, classic movies to watch on rainy days, windowsill gardens overwhelmed with spices, and barren brick walls. It swarms and fuzzies his head, the words come before he can think about them.

“You think we’ll be married by then?” He doesn’t realize this is the first time he’s ever mentioned it until Richie sits up and stares at him, he follows. He knows his face is bright red, he can almost feel the blood pooling beneath his skin.

“Eds, that’s uh…” He stands up and starts pacing, a hand running through the mop of curls that bounce once it’s gone. “We shouldn’t do this now.” Eddie slides to the edge of the bed and lets his feet dangle above the floor before standing up. He doesn’t obstruct the path Richie’s on, he knows he only paces when he’s worked up. “And I’m not gonna pretend you didn’t bring up getting married after a falling out with your mom.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“Whenever she calls, you go through an impulsive streak where you do anything and everything you think would make her upset if she saw it. I don’t wanna talk about this if it’s just something you’re doing to feel reckless, I’m not gonna be your bad decision to piss mommy off with.” That’s the only spark it needs, soon insistent words and adamant tones blossom into an argument, soon the argument blossoms into a screaming match — words hurled at full volume and slamming into the other’s chest. Eddie’s aim is good, less power behind the throws and more tactful approaches to the situation at first. Richie’s aim is better, pinpointing the things that he knows pisses Eddie off and using the fire in his heart against him until he’s as angry as he is. That’s the bad part about knowing a person so well, you can pick them apart and immobilize them in such small time. They know what pulls at the stitches that keep them together, which seams are the weakest and which are the most sensitive.

Richie’s heading to the door fast, grabbing his jacket from the bed and his keys from the dresser. He says he’ll be back later, but doesn’t say when later is. Eddie’s left with an empty room, dark and barren and cold. He throws something at the door once it slams shut, fury and confusion take turns swirling in his blood. His steps creak and bang up the stairs, bottles in the fridge shelves shaking when he opens it to find a drink. All that’s there is beer. He takes it anyway, flinching at the sound of Maggie’s voice.

“He’ll be back. Take it from me, he always disappears after fights like that.”

“You heard?” His shoulders drop and she smiles, it’s enough of an answer. “I don’t even know what the fuck just happened.” She chuckles to herself, handing him the bottle opener when she sees he can’t find it in the drawer. He collapses in a barstool and the bottle cap clinks against the countertop. The taste is revolting, it tastes better on Richie’s tongue.

“Wanna make some blueberry pie? You seem like you need a pick me up and nothing says happiness like baking.” She hands him the apron before he can nod and something in him aches — a longing, lost feeling for the type of mom he never got to have. Maggie’s memorized the little things, how he’ll forget to eat when he’s doing a paper and the way that listening to Bon Iver means he’s upset; she reminds him that she knows with plates of food left in the oven from missed dinners and sneaking a couple packs of Swedish Fish into his bag after days of hearing Holocene on repeat. “We’ve got some cherry merlot in the liquor cabinet. Richie’s taste in beer is shit.” She’s rifling through the fridge, too preoccupied to see the smile on his face. His steps toward the cabinet are lazy, the bottle clinks against the ledge when he grabs it.

“Want any?” He puts back one of the wine glasses when she shakes her head.

“That sounded like quite an argument.” She puts her hair up and he could swear that she’s a version of Ren from the future, her kids are damn near clones of her.

“Oh,” Eddie’s shoulders drop, “yeah, I don’t know. A lot of shit happened.” They start the crust first, she hands him the measurements of ingredients that she’s memorized and he mixes them. It sort of makes him feel like a kid, but he likes it. “My mom called and I kinda told her that I was never gonna speak to her again.”

“I take it that didn’t go over well,” Maggie says. She starts on a step with water and ice that he can’t begin to understand.

“She didn’t even say anything. I said all this shit, like, all the things I’ve always wanted to say — basically that she’s a shit person and she can either be happy for me or fuck off — and she didn’t even _ respond.” _Kneading the dough is the fun part, he can take out all his frustration on it. She puts it in the fridge with a two hour timer and grabs a box of pasta from the shelves, shaking it as a question that she doesn’t need an answer to. He grabs the pot to boil it in for her. “But, anyway, I just ended up saying that I don’t wanna hear from her anymore and hung up. And I’m upset, you know?”

“Of course.”

“When I came back inside, Richie was ready for damage-control and it was fine. He was distracting me and I was probably just gonna end up napping, but he talked about all this stuff. The future, right? I like talking about it.” He keeps going, rambling, ranting, and she lets him. The entire Tozier family is used to it at this point, they don’t interrupt and they try not to fuel them into something more. “I love to think about shit like getting an apartment and decorating it together or making him breakfast in the morning. I know he loves it too.”

“The 40s jazz music thing,” She says. He doesn’t ask how she knows, whether Richie’s told her or she’s just overheard. He hopes she doesn’t know _ all _ of that daydream.

“Exactly! I was emotional as shit and he’s helping and then I just—” Eddie stops, for a moment, and wonders if he should say it. Another moment and he knows he can, he never has to be afraid of his words in this house. “I asked him if we’d be married by the time we got to that point.”

“And he freaked out?” He loves that she doesn’t react beyond this. He wants to tell her that he could almost cry because she acts like it’s normal, because it _ is _normal to her.

“Not really. I mean, he looked like he just got punched in the throat but he didn’t really seem worked up. He told me that it wasn’t a good time to talk about it and I pushed it.” He always does. Stan says he’s one of the most stubborn people on the planet and he’s sure Richie will agree. Whole-heartedness is in his DNA. “We’ve gotten into fights before but he’s never just left like that.” He takes off the apron and puts it on the counter, sitting at the stool nearby. The wine in his glass is gone and he doesn’t remember drinking it.

“He says and does a lot of stupid shit when he’s scared. It’s a family trait.” Maggie stirs the pasta into the boiling water, apron coming off after just the same. “Sometimes I think he’s scared he might be like his dad so he pushes people away.”

“Why wouldn’t he wanna be like Went?” The look she gets reminds him what he tends to forget, that Went is Richie’s step-dad. “Oh, that dad. He’s never mentioned him.”

“He doesn’t like to talk about Guy. I don’t blame him.” The shift in the room is almost visible, something somber instead of rampant. She pours more wine, this time with some for herself, and sits across from him. “I know that he told you I wasn’t always...I was bad, Eddie. We were really young, we tried to make it work, and I’m glad that we did because I love those kids more than anything—”

“But?”

“But, it took me too long to show it. It shouldn’t have taken what it did for me to step up and be a real fucking parent.” Tears make a threat in the cracks of her voice, how unsteadily it stands and tries to walk. If there’s a single expression for regret, he can see it engraved in her. “I know that they’re still hurting, I can’t pretend not to see it, but I don’t know how to tell them it was my fault. I was young and selfish and I took it out on them when they didn’t deserve it.” On some level, he knows he hates the part of her that put them through that. He doesn’t say it, but she knows and neither of them want to acknowledge it.

“He told me that part.”

“And not Went’s?” It’s not really a question. They know Richie and his habit of leaving things out, if he brings them up at all. He takes a sip in the pause. The taste is sweet on his tongue and helps him forget, just barely, why he’s drinking it. “After Richie came out, Guy bailed.” And then he remembers. The words hit him and they hit him hard, leaving him unable to do or think or say anything, only _ feel _ how heavy his heart is getting. He doesn’t think he breathes, searching the copper of her eyes for any hint that she’s joking. There isn’t one and, suddenly, Eddie understands why Richie was so scared after he walked in on him and Bill that Halloween. Someone abandoned him. _ His father abandoned him. _ He had to patch up the holes they left behind. _ He had to do it alone. _

“I divorced him and it took a few months. Richie blamed himself and Ren did too, wouldn’t even talk to him. She hated him for it, for a long time, and I think all of that’s what broke him.” Maggie’s voice gets soft and he knows, hands absent-mindedly wiping the tears from his eyes that he didn’t know he’d cried. Now, more than ever before, he knows why Richie doesn’t talk about anything. He almost wishes he didn’t know these things, that he could still pretend that Richie’s only ever known happiness instead of rotting, poisonous heartache._ Do you think he’s as happy as he looks? _ Too many times his mind wanders to last April and the image of freckles vanishing in fluorescence, nights with bad dreams full of what could’ve happened if he hadn’t answered his phone. _ Do you think I’ll be happy when I’m older? _ He thinks that, now, the dreams will be of what would have happened if Ren hadn’t called the ambulance. _ I never thought about how real the possibility of actually losing you is. _Dread tears through his skin, reminding him that Richie’s not invincible, that he won’t live forever.

“We moved after he got out of the hospital. Things were broken for a while, none of us really knew how to interact with each other. I was never really a mom and they had this rift between them that they didn’t know how to mend.” She’s crying too. Eddie wants to comfort her but can’t find anything that could help, too lost in his own head to find something better than the first thing he thinks of.

“You seem really close now.”

“Family therapy.” She smiles fondly, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing to reassure him it’s okay, that she knows she said a lot and doesn’t expect him to rebound from it so quickly “And Went too. As much as I want to say that I turned myself around on my own, I don’t think I could’ve done it without him. He made us a family, they’ll both say that.”

“Richie never talks about any of this,” He says softly. He still understands why he doesn’t, almost wanting to tell him he never has to, but knows better than to actually do it. Maggie gets up and turns the stove off, draining the pasta while Eddie fumbles to get up and grab what she needs for her.

“He doesn’t like to think about it. If you ask him, he’ll say that Went’s his real dad. Ren says it too. They both took his last name after we got married.” She stirs in the butter and spices while he sits on the counter. The things she’s said still rattle through him and clamour against his bones, he breaks.

“I think I scared him away.” The sob gets caught in his throat, hands flying to his face to hide the tears and shame. Maggie squeezes his shoulder again.

“Give him some time to calm down. He’s a shithead when he’s angry but, once he’s back, he’ll be able to talk things out.” There’s a sureness in her tone that gives him glimpses into the arguments she and Richie must’ve had. He knows that there’s rage hidden and buried in the further parts of him. _ Sometimes I’m still angry that I didn't get to have real parents the whole time. _ Hot and cold emotions are something he’s found in Richie early on, he tries so hard to smother them and they’re too much to contain.

“What if he’s freaked out?”

“I don’t think he is.”

“You didn’t see his face.”

“No, but I know how it feels to find your soulmate, Eddie. I see it in the both of you every day,” She says. Fly-aways of her dark curls fall into her face and she pushes them back with the hand that’s not holding two bowls. They split the pasta and sit at the island again.

“You don’t think we’re too young?” The burning question. It’s what Stan says whenever he mentions that he wants to marry Richie one day, besides the fact that he’s an idiot. But Eddie knows. He knows they’re young, that it’s stupid, that it’s reckless. He knows and he doesn’t care. Maybe the question instead is if it’s worth it.

“I got pregnant with Richie at nineteen, I’m not the best person to ask about age.”

“You’re literally _ the _best person to ask,” Eddie says, mouth full of pasta that makes his words sound garbled. Despite the small smile, Maggie sighs and tilts her head, trying to find the right way to say what she wants without possibly offending him. He wants to ask her to be blunt without fear of it, but he likes that she cares.

“If you’re asking me, I think you should wait on it, even if it’s just for a few months. Get in more arguments and resolve them, find out how to cope when you can’t stand to look at each other.” She keeps going but he stops listening, remembering his first Christmas here. Richie couldn’t bear to look at him for too long. He hopes they never reach a point like that again. “...learn how to talk things out without getting explosive, and make sure you can enjoy spending time together when your sex life stalls—”

“Maggie,” He twines. Went only knows what he overhears and Ren probably knows too much, but this isn’t a topic he wants to get into with Richie’s mom.

“I know, I know, I’m the last person you wanna hear it from but that stuff happens. Sex is fun and it can be a big part of your relationship but it shouldn’t be the only part.” The shift in the room is almost visible again and Eddie knows, somehow, that’s how she ended up with Richie’s biological dad. “I’m not going to act like I know anything about what you have with him besides what I see. You know him more than I do and you know yourself even better. Do what makes sense. Whether you get hitched in ten days or ten years, I’ll be rooting for you both.” Then, the pasta’s gone and they keep waiting for the crust to finish chilling. They don’t stop talking, topics jumping from one thing to the next, and listen to music that Maggie used to like in high school; she’s overjoyed that Eddie knows all the words, saying how much her kids hate her taste in music.

For a while, it’s fun. She keeps his mind busy while they make the blueberry filling and even distracts him while the pie bakes in the oven. But, eventually, nothing can keep his mind from wandering and worrying. Three hours and counting, Richie won’t answer his phone and the false hope from hearing Went’s car in the driveway is all it takes to reduce Eddie to tears. The worst case scenarios take hold — car accidents, muggings, and, by far the worst, a possible repeat of April. A reminder of the week-long radio silence that preceded the phone call from the top of the science building, it feels like he’s waiting for another one.

A little while and Ren is home. She knows something’s wrong the second she opens the door, he can’t tell if it’s because Maggie told her or she guessed by the smell of blueberries floating in the air. She sits with him, listening to every anxiety that slips from his mouth and making him take something when the headache sets in. He doesn’t let her help for long, retreating to the comfort of his bed once the sun sets. It’s dark for hours before he comes home. Eddie hears the keys first, trying to calm his heart at the sound. Richie’s a silhouette in the doorway, messy hair and baggy clothes.

“Hey, I think—”

“You’ve been gone for six hours,” Eddie says softly. Not to be mean, not to start another fight, just to tell him he noticed. He doesn’t look at him but Richie stops, the sight of tears and puffy eyes squeezing his lungs shut. "I didn’t know where you went and I just...I was scared." There's relief between his words, but he's cautious to even let them out. The realization breaks Richie's heart, he knows what happened the last time he went MIA for a while. He still remembers the horrified tone of Eddie's voice when he answered that phone call, the broken way Eddie choked out his name and pleaded, he can never forget it. Guilt burns in his skin like a branding, more painful with each step toward him. The bed creaks when he sits down and he feels Eddie’s hand on his back.

"I’m sorry." He lays with him, wraps his arms around him, and keeps him close enough to hear the steady beats of his heart. “I wanted to drive around and clear my head. I’ll call next time, I promise.” He lays with him and presses his lips to the top of his head, fingers combing through the chocolate brown waves of his hair and catching on the occasional knot. The silence is suffocating, neither know how much more of it they can suffer through.

“You’re right, you know.” Eddie’s gentle voice is muffled against the fabric of his shirt, he ignores, for now, that it smells like cigarettes. He almost missed it, nostalgia for the nights spent at their secret spot. “My mom makes me impulsive, it’s not like I haven’t noticed.” Hearing his heartbeat calms him the most. _ He’s safe, _ he tells himself. _ Richie’s safe. _It clear his head. “But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t serious. I really do want that, Rich.”

“I know.” His breath is warm on his skin, it smells like cigarettes too. The muscles in his arms twitch, wrapping tighter around the slants and curves of Eddie’s waist. “I can’t keep shutting you out. I can’t keep blowing up like that either. It’s not fair to you.”

“I know why you do it,” He says. It’s a way out, a declaration that he knows things take time to heal and doesn’t expect him to be emotionally stable overnight. But, Richie doesn’t take it.

“I still shouldn’t. I used to do it all the time and never think about it, blow up at someone and make them leave before I could really hurt them.” His voice gets softer, flinching from the memory that still burns in his brain. The look on Eddie’s face the last time he did something like this._ Maybe you’re just like your mother, an asshole who likes to fuck with other people’s heads. _He’ll never forgive himself for it. “I don’t want to make you leave.”

“You couldn’t make me leave even if you did want to.” He presses a kiss against the nicotine fabric, hoping the neediness doesn’t shine through as much as he thinks it does. “Stuck with me forever, Trashmouth.” Another kiss. His fingers graze the waistband of his jeans and he can hear his heartbeat pick up.

“I love you,” He’s breathless, teetering on the edge, “and I don’t not wanna marry you, Eds. You just surprised me and I—”

“Don’t worry about that right now. We’ve got time, we can talk about it later.” The bed creaks again when Eddie, rather lazily, manages to hook one of his legs around Richie’s hips. His hands find them, back hitting the mattress to get him on top of him. “How about some make-up sex?” A smile flickers across his face and Eddie already knows the answer, he rolls his hips and earns a breathy, strung out mess of his name. They’ll be okay.

★★★

** _— messages: Totally Smitten Stan (1) — _ **

** _Totally Smitten Stan [7:31PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ you’re being totally ridiculous _

**_Eds [7:31PM]:_** _  
__geez, don’t sugarcoat it for me._

** _Totally Smitten Stan [7:32PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ you’re twenty-two _

**_Eds [7:32PM]:_** _  
__you’re telling me you never think of marrying Mike?_

** _Totally Smitten Stan [7:32PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ that’s literally never crossed my mind _

**_Eds [7:33PM]:_** _  
__why not?_

** _Totally Smitten Stan [7:34PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ because i’m barely in my twenties and so are you _

**_Eds [7:34PM]:_** _  
__yeah but can you see yourself with anyone else?_

** _Totally Smitten Stan [7:36PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ of course not _

**_Eds [7:37PM]:_** _  
__exactly._

** _Totally Smitten Stan [7:37PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ that’s how it’s supposed to be _ _  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [7:37PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ otherwise you aren’t happy or there’s cheating _

**_Eds [7:39PM]:_** _  
__i just don’t know why i wouldn’t get a jumpstart.__  
_**_Eds [7:39PM]:_** _  
__i love him and he loves me.__  
_**_Eds [7:39PM]:_** _  
__idk why it’s complicated._

** _Totally Smitten Stan [7:40PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ it’s complicated because it’s a really really huge thing _ _  
_ _ and you’re both young and you just started dating _ ** _  
_ ** ** _Totally Smitten Stan [7:40PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ it’s not that i don’t love you two together but that is a _ _  
_ _ stupid as shit decision to make right now _ _  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [7:40PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ and didn’t you two just have a huge fight because of _ _  
_ _ the whole “let’s get engaged” thing you brought up? _

** _Eds [7:42PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ i know. _ _  
_ ** _Eds [7:42PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ and yeah we did. _ _  
_ ** _Eds [7:43PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ i can’t ever imagine spending my life with someone _ _  
_ _ else, you’re gonna make fun of me but i think he’s my _ _  
_ _ soulmate and i can’t see it changing. _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [7:44PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ yeah you’re right i’m gonna make fun of you  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [7:44PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ but i get it _

** _Eds [7:47PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ i bet all of us will be married in the next 3 years. _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [7:47PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ bullshit  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [7:48PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ it’ll take another two years for Bill and Bev to get their _ _  
_ _ shit together  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [7:48PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ i don’t think she even realizes she loves him yet _

** _Eds [7:50PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ OK maybe 4 years.  
_ ** _Eds [7:50PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ and i definitely think she’s realized by now. _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [7:51PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ does Ben have a secret girlfriend i’m not aware of yet? _

** _Eds [7:51PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ 5 years, he’s eyeing a cutie in his poetry club. _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [7:53PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ just say you think i’m gonna marry Mike and get it over _ _  
_ _ with because i know that’s what you think _

** _Eds [7:57PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ come on you know you will. _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [7:59PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ no i don’t  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [7:59PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ i can hope that’ll happen but i wanna finish law school _ _  
_ _ first and i’m sure he’ll wanna finish med school  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [8:00PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ but life is super unpredictable, man  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [8:00PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ he might fall in love with someone else or i might or _ _  
_ _ maybe we’ll die in a zombie apocalypse brought on by _ _  
_ _ mother nature finally being done with the human race’s _ _  
_ _ bullshit _

** _Eds [8:02PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ it doesn’t matter in the future!!  
_ ** _Eds [8:02PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ it matters right now!!!!! _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [8:08PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ yeah right now i love him and he loves me  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [8:08PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ but if that changes i don’t know if i’d be able to handle _ _  
_ _ a huge divorce like that _

** _Eds [8:09PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ you never give enough credit for how strong you are, _ _  
_ _ ya know. you could handle that. _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [8:11PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ i don’t *want* to handle it Eddie  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [8:11PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ i know that i could but i don’t want to  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [8:12PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ losing him isn’t something i like to think about and that  
_ _ is a really big way to lose him _

** _Eds [8:15PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ i know, but i don’t wanna let the fear of that control me _ _  
_ _ or change how i live my life. _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [8:16PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ well you’re braver than i am _

** _Eds [8:16PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ that’s not true and you know it. _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [8:18PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ okay, let me put it this way, _ _  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [8:19PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ and if you still don’t care or you want me to stop being _ _  
_ _ negative then i promise to be a dumb and impulsive kid _ _  
_ _ with you about this, but for now  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [8:20PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ say you get married in the next year and it’s amazing. _ _  
_ _ you’re happy and he’s happy and things are how you _ _  
_ _ always wanted them to be. you’ve both got jobs and _ _  
_ _ Richie’s booking shows at venues on the weekends _

** _Eds [8:20PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ Stan. _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [8:21PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ and then things aren’t good anymore but it’s not all of _ _  
_ _ the sudden, it’s slow and it masks itself as the good. _ _  
_ _ Richie gets noticed by a big agent and books bigger _ _  
_ _ venues, starts touring the east coast more and more  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [8:23PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ you’re happy for him, this is what he’s always wanted _ _  
_ _ and you always knew he could do it because, let’s be _ _  
_ _ honest, he can. he’ll probably get noticed in the next _ _  
_ _ three years and make it big in the next six, maybe even _ _  
_ _ sooner than that _

** _Eds [8:23PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ don’t. _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [8:25PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ he’s making a lot of money and he’s successful but he _ _  
_ _ is gone a lot. you miss him a lot but you’re not gonna _ _  
_ _ say anything because you don’t want him to think that _ _  
_ _ you’re trying to hold him back. so you suffer in silence _ _  
_ _ for a few years while it eats at you _ _  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [8:27PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ things don’t feel as fun and as carefree as they did _ _  
_ _ when you were in school. you’re settled and you’re in a _ _  
_ _ routine and it’s good to have routines but you’re so _ _  
_ _ fucking bored and all you want in the world is to feel a _ _  
_ _ glimmer of the excitement that you did years ago. then _ _  
_ _ it’s too much to keep your mouth shut for and you lose _ _  
_ _ your shit on him one day _

** _Eds [8:28PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ don’t fucking do this. _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [8:29PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ he didn’t know how much things were upsetting you so _ _  
_ _ he stops taking as many job offers and puts more _ _  
_ _ space between his tours and you start to do some _ _  
_ _ spontaneous stuff like when you were younger. for a bit _ _  
_ _ you’re happy and things are good again  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [8:30PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ but it doesn’t stay good because you can see how _ _  
_ _ frustrated he’s getting with feeling like he has to put his _ _  
_ _ career on the back-burner for you. you try to let him _ _  
_ _ know how much you appreciate the extra time you  
_ _ spend together but nothing seems to take away the _ _  
_ _ tension  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [8:31PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ you start fighting but it’s not all of the sudden, it’s slow _ _  
_ _ and it builds. it starts with passive-aggressiveness or _ _  
_ _ snide comments and then you’re having screaming _ _  
_ _ matches almost every day and you don’t know how it _ _  
_ _ got to that point _

** _Eds [8:31PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ stop. _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [8:33PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ one of you suggests marriage counseling and you’re _ _  
_ _ really excited about it, you use all the techniques given _ _  
_ _ to you and the rough patches are still there but a little _ _  
_ _ less rough. you learn to live with his busyness and he _ _  
_ _ learns to live with your nostalgia for the good old days _ _  
_ _ but your house feels like a fucking powder keg and you _ _  
_ _ can’t fucking stand the feeling of walking on eggshells  
_ _ all the time _ _  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [8:34PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ you stop going to counseling. the techniques stop  
_ _ working. you start fighting again. he stops bringing you  
_ _ to red carpet events and you hate the way his costars  
_ _ look at him because you used to look at him like that,  
_ _ like he was a fucking genius who put the stars in the  
_ _ goddamn sky for you  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [8:36PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ one day the powder keg explodes and one of you  
_ _ stops sleeping in your bed, on the couch or in the  
_ _ guest bed or maybe even at someone else’s house.  
_ _ however it happens, it happens ugly. one of you saying  
_ _ something cruel in the heat of the moment that the  
_ _ other can’t let go of. you decide to get a divorce,  
_ _ mutual but still more difficult than either of you  
_ _ anticipated _

** _Eds [8:37PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ i fucking said to stop. _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [8:38PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ you say you’ll be adults about it and you are, but  
_ _ nothing changes the fact that you lost something big  
_ _ and you can’t look at each other without it breaking  
_ _ your hearts so you don’t talk and you don’t go to group  
_ _ events where you know the both of you will be  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [8:40PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ eventually he’ll move on, maybe start dating one of the  
_ _ costars that you didn’t like or maybe not. but he’ll find  
_ _ someone that he falls in love with and he’ll get  
_ _ remarried. you’ll still be stuck with trying to figure out  
_ _ what to do because you’re not experienced with dating  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [8:41PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ and something in you will die each time you see  
_ _ pictures of Richie and his new husband. every last  
_ _ magazine you pass in the grocery store will feel like a  
_ _ punch to the throat and whenever one of the Losers  
_ _ mention him you’ll want to scream at them to stop  
_ _ talking about it  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [8:42PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ you’ll try to put yourself out there again but nobody you  
_ _ meet is Richie. no one will make you laugh like he did  
_ _ and no one will understand you like he did and no one  
_ _ will love you like he did. you hate that you feel the way  
_ _ you do but nothing makes it stop _ _  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [8:44PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ on social media you’ll see that he has kids and it  
_ _ breaks you because is that one of the reasons it didn’t   
_ _ work out? should you have been more open to starting   
_ _ a family? you start scrolling through his and his   
_ _ husband’s instagrams and see things you wish you   
_ _ hadn’t like date night photos and nursery decor  
_ _ updates and you fucking hate it all. you hate Richie  
_ _ and you hate his husband but you still love him and  
_ _ you’re happy that he’s happy again  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [8:45PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ but you’re not the same as before because you know  
_ _ you’ll never get to hear him say your name in that  
_ _ award acceptance speech again, because you’ll never  
_ _ get to watch his eyes light up when he wakes up next  
_ _ to you again, because you’ll never get to love him like  
_ _ that again  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [8:46PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ you’ll get through it because you’re fucking strong and  
_ _ if Sonia couldn’t break you then nothing can. but before  
_ _ that it’ll hurt, because you’ll know that it should’ve  
_ _ ended differently than it did  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [8:46PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ i don’t wanna watch something like that happen  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [8:59PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Eddie?  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [9:10PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ i’m sorry  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [9:11PM]: _ ** ** _  
_ ** _ i shouldn’t have said any of it _

** _Eds [10:26PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ fuck you. _

★★★

The celebration is made up of Korean take-out and watching No Strings Attached on the couch. Everyone else is out of the house and Richie got the lead for 1984, which they both found hilariously appropriate considering their history with it. Things are good again, mostly. Their argument put to rest, a decision made to save up and get an apartment by July, and Eddie’s interview for a job in the Department of Humanities and Social Sciences’ advising office scheduled. The not-so good part is Stan. Eddie still hasn’t spoken to him and refuses to acknowledge his presence whenever he tries to apologize, he even blocked his number.

It’s formed a rift in the Losers and it’s getting worse. Everyone thinks Stan took it too far, even he thinks it. No one will let Richie read the things he said but he knows it was bad, he saw the aftermath — a full-blown meltdown with tears and screaming and being unable to breathe. It lasted hours and, for a bit, Ren was pushing the idea of taking Eddie to a hospital because no one knew what was wrong. When it finally died, he could barely talk; Richie held him in the silence and waited for hours before Eddie opened his mouth again. The words didn’t make sense to him, they still don’t, but they scare him. _ Please don’t outgrow me. I love you, I love you, I love you. I’ll never stop loving you. _Richie doesn’t have to read what Stan said to know he’s furious with him.

The rest of the Losers are hardly any better. For a while, only Mike spoke to him. Now they all do, save for Eddie, but there’s a barrier he can’t seem to break down. Beverly says time will make things better and maybe it will. For now, they know that group activities aren’t possible unless they exclude Stan, so they don’t plan them at all.

Eddie has movie nights with Richie instead, showing each other their favorites or purposefully picking out god awful ones to see the other’s reaction. It never matters. They don’t watch the movies anyway, not really. They haven’t been able to finish one since December, always abandoned a little less than halfway through after one of their hands starts to wander. Free time doesn’t totally exist anymore. Well, it _ does, _but most (if not all) of it is spent behind their locked bedroom door. Morning sex, afternoon sex, evening sex, before bed sex, middle-of-the-night sex, shower sex, kitchen counter sex, living room floor sex, up against the wall sex, need-inspiration-to-write-a-paper sex — they do it all. Maggie and Went have taken to constantly announcing how long they’ll be gone before they leave and Ren never takes off her noise-cancelling headphones because, in her words, she doesn’t want to go downstairs to do laundry and hear things that’ll scar her for life.

Things are good again, mostly. The evergreen sweater Richie knows that Eddie adores just barely hides the marks on his fair skin, spread out like the freckles on his face but they fill Eddie with far more glee. Richie’s nose is buried in one of the books that Ben got him for Christmas, he’s been on a reading spree for days and Eddie, ever the little shit, likes to tear away his attention as much as possible. He doesn’t know exactly _ why _he thinks so, but Richie is always the most attractive to him when he’s lost in his own actions. Reading, writing, analyzing a movie — it doesn’t matter what it is, if he’s captivated then he’s irresistible. So, when Eddie’s hand slips between Richie’s knees, all he does is give him a knowing look.

“What?” He smiles innocently, gesturing to the screen. “I’m watching.” Richie rolls his eyes, turning back to the book. His glasses are slowly slipping down the bridge of his nose, no matter how many times he pushes them back up. If he weren’t so blind, he’d take them off to avoid the annoyance they bring. Eddie keeps his eyes on the TV, hand creeping farther up. He can hear the hitch in his breath between the flipping of pages, but he still doesn’t look at him. Not until Eddie’s hand starts slipping down the waistband of his sweatpants.

“Eds.” Richie whines, eyes flickering up at him from the book with something that makes his stomach burn. He slaps the book shut but doesn’t put it down yet. “Lemme finish this page first.”

“Finish it, then,” Eddie hums. He slides to the floor, pushing Richie’s knees apart to kneel in front of him and watching the way his mouth twitches at the sight.

“You want me to read while you—”

“Read to me or I’ll stop.” He flashes a wicked smile and Richie opens the book again. Eddie hooks his fingers in the pockets and pulls until the sweatpants are around his knees, a small smile for the fact that he isn’t wearing underwear, even if he likes discovering the patterns each time he does this. He’s gotten good at it too, obsessed with the way he can resort him to a mess with only his mouth. It’s one of his favorite ways to wake him up, he can never get enough of the soft gasps that melt into moans; talk about a morning routine he can get behind.

“I could not see the bottom, but I could see a long way into the motion of the water before—” The lock clicks and they’re scrambling apart in seconds, Richie falls on the floor trying to get his pants up and barely manages to do it before the front door swings open. Eddie’s still, paralyzed by the pounding in his chest, and can’t bring himself to talk when he sees Ren. She isn’t alone, crowded against the door and getting kissed by a girl he’s never met before. Pastel purple dreadlocks that fall past her shoulders and a punk wardrobe that Beverly could fawn over for hours, he assumes the girl is Kitty. Or maybe he hopes she is, wanting something to go right for Ren in the form of a first kiss with someone she loves even if he wishes he isn’t seeing it. Finally, Richie clears his throat and the two jump apart.

“You’re not supposed to be home,” Ren squeaks. Her face is bright pink, a shade or so darker than her hair.

“Neither are you.” Eddie knows he’s blushing too, not daring to look over to where Richie’s still in a heap on the floor. And then there’s the silence — heavy, awkward silence upon which all of them realize what was happening with the other pair and they realize that everyone knows. Richie stands by the table, trying to hide the grin he so desperately wants to send Ren’s way.

“Uh, hi.” The girl waves and the zippers on her leather jacket clink with the movement. There are a lot of patches ironed on, ranging from a quote about bringing down the patriarchy to a doodle of Mothman. The smells of vanilla and peach are strong, no longer just lingering as it has been on Ren’s clothes. “I’m Katherine.” A sheepish smile that gleams in the light with the silver ring in her bottom lip, she doesn’t know how else to respond. Her other hand doesn’t leave Ren’s, dark blue nail polish that matches the color of her lipstick.

“That’s Eddie,” Ren half-heartedly gestures to him, “my brother’s boyfriend.” Katherine’s shoulders drop and Eddie can almost see the breath of relief she lets go. Richie doesn’t let it get silent again.

“We were about to leave anyway,” He says. He grabs Eddie’s wrist and pulls him toward the basement door. “We’re gonna go to the aquarium, just gotta grab our stuff.” Once they’re down the stairs, Eddie stops playing along.

“What the fuck?” He puts on his jacket when Richie throws it toward him, fumbling to put on his shoes to keep up.

“Dude, I know how that feels, I’m not gonna ruin it for her.” He grabs his wallet from the dresser and his keys from the hook by the door. He slams it louder than he usually does, unlocking the car so Eddie can get in, but he doesn’t. He just stares, confused, while he starts the car and scrapes the ice off the windshield. “Plus she knows what the aquarium means.”

“What does it mean?”

“Oh, it’s a code. I, uh, let’s just say I experimented a lot in high school and if she came home when I had company I’d ask if she was planning to go to the aquarium that day.” The car is warm by the time the ice is gone, but Eddie turns the heat up higher anyway. “She’d get the hint and leave for a bit. I’m gonna text her, maybe like four hours?” Richie drops his phone in the cupholder once he’s done, backing out of the driveway without a further explanation. They drive for a bit, about to get on the highway, when the information settles in Eddie’s head.

“What in the fuck are we gonna do for four hours?” It’s a serious question, but Richie just looks confused that he asked.

“Go to the aquarium?”

“I thought that was just a code.”

“It is, but now I really wanna go.”

★★★

The apartment’s symphony is composed of soft sobs and silent reassurances, he doesn’t care for it. Eddie’s seen Beverly cry a lot, mostly from movie nights or when she gets super drunk and becomes overwhelmed with the need to tell her friends how much they mean to her — once she had a girl’s night with her coworkers from the salon and Facetimed Mike in tears just to tell him she loved him. But, Eddie hasn’t seen her cry like this since her and Richie’s audition for A Streetcar Named Desire. And now, seeing the look in her eyes when her head snaps up to find the source of sound from the door, he feels a recurrent theme.

Beverly reminds him of Ren and vice versa; fearless, fiery women who steal their joy from the world and never dare apologize for it, they know the universe owes them nothing. Right now, it looks like the universe stole all of Beverly’s joy back. She’s crumpled against the arm of the couch, a mess of long limbs and baggy pajamas and tangled hair. Her eyes are painted, a watercolor artwork of glistening tears, and her cheeks flushed.

He wants to run to her, to slam the door shut behind him and toss the spare keys in any random direction so she can bury herself in his arms. He takes a step and she makes a face, nose scrunched up and eyebrows furrowed, that makes him stop. Maybe she doesn’t want him here, would rather he spend his time till Richie’s shift is over somewhere else. She doesn’t give him the time to ask.

“Eddie, when was the last time you got a haircut?” Her voice is soft and curious, she wipes the tears from her eyes. A hand finds the long waves he hasn’t bothered to get rid of and he shrugs, the symphony ends and he’s grateful but concern still bubbles in his chest.

“I dunno, more than five months. I can’t really afford them and no one’s hiring me.”

“Dude,” Beverly stands, gesturing for him to follow her to her room, “just ask me. You’re gonna get so many split ends and it’ll just fuck everything up.” She jumps into Mom-Mode, rifling through her purse until she finds a makeup bag full of scissors, clips, hair bands, and an electric razor. All she has to do is open the bathroom door, glance at the bathtub, and go back to the makeup bag; he knows he doesn’t have a say in her help. “Shirt off, Eds.” The showerhead comes on with a turn of her wrist and Eddie doesn’t bother to argue. She still has the remnants of her sorrow caressing her skin but he knows she won’t talk about it yet.

“No making fun.” He whispers, slipping the shirt over his head and stepping into the tub after rolling up the cuffs of his jeans. For a moment, Beverly looks confused — until her eyes fall on the explosion of hickies across his chest and she has a shit-eating grin, but she doesn’t say anything. It’s like watching her go into auto-pilot, a routine of washing his hair and draping a towel over his shoulders that he knows is engraved into her bones from years of working at the salon.

“Just want me to trim it or are we doin’ a whole transformation here?”

“You’re the expert.”

“Damn right I am! By the time I’m done with you, Richie won’t be able to keep his hands off ya.” Feeling chunks of hair fall past his neck is a luxury he didn’t know he took for granted, it’s almost therapeutic. “Not like he can keep his hands off you now.” It’s quiet after that, just snipping scissors and the eventual playlist that Beverly plays to avoid the absence of words. She clips back another layer of hair and holds a second clip between her teeth, just in case. She seems content once it’s over, happy with the work she’s done and heading back to the living room where piles of tissues still lay on the coffee table. He sits with her, puts his shirt back on, and waits as long as he can; he doesn’t last long, unable to keep his mouth shut after she hooks her phone up to the speakers.

“You wanna talk about earlier?” Eddie’s gentle, not wanting to push too hard. He knows the levels of her sadness, all three: caretaking, baking, and dressmaking. He’s just happy she’s on the first level; the last time it got bad, Bill said she was locked up in her room for two weeks and came back out with seven dresses that she ended up selling. Eddie’s only seen up to the baking level, how she never seems to stop offering ziploc bags of cookies or brownies or muffins from nights spent slaving over a hot oven.

“Want to? No.” Not even the music can lessen the silence now, it almost seems to pulse with the bass. Over and over, louder and louder, until she gives in to it. “I fucked up bad, man. Like, _ really _ bad.” He can hear the fragility, how the tears threaten to snap her voice under their pressure. She breaks. He can’t hold her, hands trying and failing to hold on to her shivering frame; her fingers dig into his biceps the further she falls into his lap. He tries to ask what’s wrong, only answered with mumbled laments of _ I’m so stupid _ and _ I fucked up. _Richie’s better at comforting her than he is, he’s always been.

“Fucking up is okay, Bev.”

“Not this time,” She says. She says nothing else, tears melting into the fabric of his shirt.

“You’re being too hard on your—”

“Eddie, I’m pregnant.” He can’t react any more than going still, overwhelmed by the feeling that he’s unequipped to help but desperately wanting to make her feel okay again. “I don’t know what to do. I always know what to do and now I just...I’m so fucking scared.” He runs his fingers through her hair, realizing how long it’s gotten since they’ve met and ignoring the grease it leaves on his skin. He understands.

“It’s alright to be scared, no one expects you to know what to do. This is a big thing but accidents happen. We can figure it out.” Beverly looks up at him, eyelashes wet with tears, and Eddie’s heart breaks. He isn’t used to the sight and he hopes he never is. The music drowns out the third wave of silence, echoing off the brick walls and floating out the cracked open windows. It takes a while for her to pull herself together, making them cups of tea and disappearing to take a shower. She comes back in a shirt he recognizes, damp hair tied up out of her freckled face and wearing jeans with a giant rip; he can see a tattoo going down her thigh that he knows is new, a desert landscape with the setting sun. They’re back on the couch once she nods, letting him know she’s ready to talk more.

“So...” Eddie trails off. He doesn’t have the slightest idea of what to do or say, so many questions buzzing in his head that he can’t pick one. Beverly doesn’t give him much time to try and ask.

“It’s Bill’s. We had sex a few days after we got back from California.” She leans on her elbows, digging into the fabric of her pants. Flyaway strands of orange fall into her face, she doesn’t try to move them. All Eddie can do is look at her and try not to seem as unsurprised as he is, but it doesn’t work. “Go ahead and ask, I know you want to.” He can’t pretend that he didn’t notice the shirt she’s wearing is Bill’s favorite, the one he’s been missing for weeks but doesn’t seem upset about losing.

“I don’t have to ask, Bev. I know you love each other.”

“I meant about the sex, I know I wasn’t subtle about the whole ‘in love with him’ thing.”

“Oh, yeah, definitely tell me about that.” 

“It was a total disaster in terms of romance, I think. Not my strong suit, honestly, but I was kind of freaking out after he told me his book got picked up.” She almost spills her drink putting it down on the table, too engrossed in telling the story to really care. “I figured he’d move out once he started getting royalty checks and I didn’t want him to leave so I kind of got bitchy whenever he brought it up.” _ Of course, _ Eddie thinks. _ She was the first person he told. _The thought makes his heart feel warm. “He got fed up with it and asked what my problem was, I started yelling at him to leave now if he was thinking about it and you know him, he acted first thought later. We were in a screaming match, him asking me why I’ve been so pissed and whatever,”

“Then I yelled that I didn’t want him to leave and he yelled that he didn’t wanna leave, like a back and forth that just built the tension, ya know?” Eddie nods, he knows that feeling. His mind takes him back to an argument from months ago, how it started with Richie being angry about his hovering and how it ended with them making out. “I dunno what he said that made me do it but I just grabbed him and kissed him, then we fucked on the kitchen counter.”

“And?” He sees the smile bloom across her face, it makes the entire building breathe with life.

“And it was great. Right after that we fucked on the couch.” She stifles a laugh at the disgusted look on his face, shifting in his seat and wanting to move. “Then the floor. Then shower.” This time she does laugh, unable to hide it with the sight of Eddie’s widened eyes. She could go into four hours worth of details, telling him all the things that would make it hard to look Bill in the eyes for a couple of days, but she doesn’t.

“Jesus, Bev.”

“Tell me about it, I could barely walk my legs were so wobbly.”

“Hell of a way to settle all that pining,” He says. The good feeling vanishes, replaced by the looming shadow of the problem at hand. He wants to find a gentle way to ask but doesn’t think there is one. “Do you, uh, do you know what you’re—”

“You mean if I’m gonna keep it.” Beverly purses her lips, looking down at her lap and sighing. Another few seconds of nothing, preparing for the answer she’s going to give. “I want to.” She stares ahead of her, at nothing, and tries to look confident with her choice. The expression cracks and she’s in Eddie’s arms again, choking on the sobs she tries so hard to swallow. He hasn’t seen her this terrified before. “I don’t know how to tell him. I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if I’m strong enough for this.”

“Hey,” Eddie makes her look at him, a hand on her cheek, “you’re Beverly fuckin’ Marsh, you’re strong enough for anything.” She sits up straighter, leaning into his touch like it’s all she needs in the world. “And I’ll be here for you too. Anything you need, I’ll be here.” She wipes the tears from her eyes and takes a deep breath, almost wary of speaking.

“Do you think I’d be a good mom?”

“Of course I do. Nobody’s got a heart as big as yours, Bev,” He says. There’s relief, briefly, written in her skin before another question finds its way to her lips.

“What do you think he’ll say?”

“I don’t know.” Eddie shrugs, putting his arm around her and keeping her close. They collapse into the cushions, staring up at the too-white ceiling. “I’m assuming that you’re dating now.” He glances over for confirmation, but there isn’t time to be happy about it. She spirals into another story, how things were going well and they were getting ready to tell the rest of the Losers about their relationship. But then she was late, then she missed her period entirely, then she took a pregnancy test. She didn’t know how to hide it from him so she kicked him out and he’s been staying with Ben for the past few days. Eddie doesn’t judge her, doesn’t ask why she made the decisions she did, he just nods.

“I think it just depends on what you both want,” He says. She rolls her eyes at him, laying her head on his shoulder. The wind from outside starts to send goosebumps down their arms but they don’t get up to close the windows.

“I don’t know what he wants. I just know what I do.”

“Start with that. Sit him down and be like: you got me pregnant, fuckhead!” Beverly’s laugh fights back the winter air, hot like a campfire just inches from his skin. All he can think is that he loves her, that he’ll do anything to make sure she knows it.

“The no condom thing was my shitty, heat-of-the-moment idea. He should be calling _ me _a fuckhead.”

“I think he’ll be in too much shock to say anything.” That much Eddie does know, he can almost see the blank, frozen expression that Bill will get upon hearing the words come out of her mouth. She knows too, still unsure of just how to phrase those words to make it seem like less of a bombshell. Fear buzzes in her like angry wasps.

“I’m worried he’ll leave.”

“I’m not.” Eddie doesn’t hesitate for a second and she looks at him, curious. “He’s loved you for so long, Bev. The way he writes about you...god, I don’t think he ever sees a future without you in it.” He remembers a lot of the things Bill’s wrote, all of them resonating with him in some way, but he remembers the lines about Beverly the most. There isn’t a doubt in his mind that Bill wouldn’t give the world to her if only he could.

“I really love him.” Her voice is laced with a mess of things, the unflinching genuinity of it swallows Eddie whole. They talk things out for hours, nailing down details and preparing what she’ll say. He picks Richie up and knows that Beverly’s calling Bill to come back home. Hours later, after Eddie’s been waiting for news and silently worrying, he gets a message.

**— messages: Baberly (2) —**

** _Baberly [11:54PM]: _ ** _  
_ _ [BillyAndMe.img]  
_**_Baberly [11:54PM]:   
_**_we’re gonna be parents!!!!_


	16. but soon and for the rest of your life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s hard to imagine silence being so loud, to see the absence of their voices as a pulsating, breathing creature. There’s no other way to see it, though. The white noise makes it seem all the more obvious between rolling thunder, muffled voices, and humming heating units. Moments like this aren’t common because comfortable silence doesn’t exist for them. Richie rarely stops running his mouth, even in bed, and Eddie isn’t much better, especially when he’s worked up. Silence happens in somber moments and sleep, where no one can bring themselves to speak from either low spirits or lethargy. There have been too many of these intermissions today. The worst part is their powerlessness to stop them, it slips out from beneath their feet like sand and they fall into the bottom half of the hourglass — stuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys!!! i've been excited for this chapter for a long-ass fuckin' time and i'm really glad it's done for me to share with y'all. i'm stupid tired so editing this is gonna wait till a lil bit later. also, just as an fyi, chapters for this are gonna be long as fuck from here on out (like, at least this length if not longer) 💙

**FEBRUARY**

The call comes unexpectedly, ringtone blaring as it cuts through the peace of their coffee run like a knife, and he doesn’t think anything of it. His aunts only call him on his birthday but he knows that Sonia probably asked one of them to borrow their phone after yet another landline gotten in the hopes of contacting him was blocked. He doesn’t want to answer, it’s been nice without her interference; a chance to learn what life is like without third-degree burns from the fires she fuels. He’s known he never had asthma at all, now he knows the burning in his lungs was from the smoke with nowhere else to go and nothing else to do but suffocate him.

The ice age is nice, but dread rolls at the bottom of his stomach like steel seas. It’s the only reason he answers, hands hardly listening to him as he unlocks the phone. Richie glances away from the road, only for a second, and sees the apprehension. There’s nothing, no static and no words. If it were Sonia, she’d start the guilt-trip the second he answers. _ Something’s wrong. _ He can’t open his mouth to talk before Agatha cuts him off.

“Eddie, honey, I’m sorry to have to say this.” He doesn’t listen to the rest, not really. Echoing rings and rushing water, he only hears the words _ stroke _ and _ died _ before he can’t breathe. Dissonant hums and crackling fire, he only hears the words _ funeral _ and _ Friday _ before clicking the call to an end. Richie’s at the side of the road already, car parked and hazards on, waiting for him to say something. The look on his face haunts him — twisted and broken and terror-stricken. He doesn’t have the time to ask, Eddie unbuckles his seatbelt and breaks free from the car in jagged, angry movements. He doesn’t know what he does, a cluster of blurry actions in his head, but knows that he hurls his phone toward the ground with the hope that it shatters into thousands of pieces and pokes into his skin the way the frigid air does. He feels Richie’s arms tight around him once he collapses in the dirt as solid as concrete, at least the snow melted since the last storm.

He cries for a long time, choking on air and sobs while he feels fingers run through the waves of his hair. The hearth is stone cold and he can’t make himself speak no matter how many times Richie asks what he can do to help. It overwhelms him. Not grief, but thoughts of how much he’s cared for and how he sometimes takes it for granted, the paralyzing fear brought on by a fleeting thought of _ what would I do if Richie ever died? _ It’s more than he can bear right now and, for a terrifying moment, he thinks he understands why losing his dad fucked his mother up so badly. He’d do anything in the world to keep Richie safe forever. It’s not the first time he’s remembered that he's not immortal this month or even this week. But, this reminder? It makes him want to scour the ends of the earth for the Fountain of Youth or an elixir of life or the Holy Grail, anything to keep him breathing.

Richie feels like his mind touched a live wire, scattered and frantic and unable to focus. He’s seen a lot of the panic that sparks in every synapse of Eddie’s brain, he’s come to know it well. This is different. If the outbursts are earthquakes, this one could bring the world to its knees. He knows how it goes at this point — shaking hands, shallow breaths, teary eyes. Eddie will try to speak and get choked by his nerves, only able to utter a single word once he makes his heart slow. It scares him, but Richie doesn’t think talking is going to be an option for quite a while.

“Please don’t go. I won’t—I _ can’t—” _

“Hey,” his fingers trail along the curves of his cheeks and his voice is soft, “I’m not going anywhere, Eds. I’ve got you.” He helps him to his feet, grabbing his shattered phone from the dirt and slowly making their way back to the car. He doesn’t ask yet, but he knows it’s something bad; he’s never seen Eddie fall apart so quickly.

“My mom had a stroke,” Eddie says abruptly, and Richie doesn’t know how to react; he can’t blame him, it’s not like lying was ever off-limits to her. “And she died.” Then, Richie’s expression falters and his shoulders drop. He still doesn’t know how to react, unsure if sympathy is something he wants from him. She was horrible to him — horrible is a _ gross _ understatement — he doesn’t know why Eddie’s so upset. If it were him, if his biological father died, he wouldn’t have a reaction like this; it’s not a good thing to say, but he’d probably be glad. It’s not him, though. It’s Eddie. So, Richie doesn’t say anything, his arms tighten around his waist when he feels him bury his head in the crook of his neck. “The funeral is on Friday and I don’t wanna go up there alone. I can’t do it. I don’t wanna go back to that fucking house.”

“You don’t have to go alone, we’ll drive up there together.” The thought isn’t a pleasant one. Richie hoped for a long time that he’d never have to meet Sonia and, while he’s sort of grateful he won’t, the idea of seeing that house...it sends a slow, creeping chill down his spine. He remembers the things that Eddie’s said about it. _ It’s a prison. There are parts of me that shattered there, parts that I won’t get back. _ He will not let Eddie do this alone even if it means stumbling upon the lost pieces of his younger soul, those still trying to escape and those that have given up.

“Together,” Eddie mumbles. It’s almost like he doesn’t believe it, taking a few more repeats to settle in. Richie drives them home, a silence buzzing in the car that amplifies every noise. When they walk past the kitchen, Maggie and Went see the hurried actions and urgent tone; their coffee runs last way longer than this, they know something’s not right. There’s a look shared between them, Richie beats them to the punch.

“We’re driving up to Maine for a couple of days,” he says. Eddie is a shadow clung to his side. Went almost drops the cup in his hands, another shared look with Maggie that Eddie recognizes.

“My mom died.” It’s a landmine, blowing apart the tension that he can’t stand to sit with. They have the same look on their faces that Richie did, only they’re better at leaping to hide it. Maggie gets there first, offering her open arms to him as a form of asking for permission, and the hug all but breaks him. It’s where wisdom brought on by age (or maybe from parenting) truly matters, the ability to put aside the confusion for _ why _ he’s upset and offer comfort as if it’s a normal situation. Richie tries too, but it doesn’t feel the same; the confusion bleeds through despite all desperate attempts.

Eddie isn’t there for the rest, not mentally. He knows that she offers to take off work to join them if it’d help and he knows that he says she doesn’t have to. He knows that Went offers to pay for a hotel room if they don’t want to stay at the house and he knows that he says it’s okay. The rest of it he doesn’t know. Packing is blurry, the goodbyes are blurry, and the first hour of the drive is blurry. Richie doesn’t let him take the wheel even at his eventual insistence, promising that he doesn’t mind driving the entire four hours because he’s used to longer trips down to the shore. Eddie can’t find a way to tell him that driving is exactly what he needs, a way to force him to focus on something else even if he hates the highway. They try to switch off after a rest stop and it doesn’t work, he gets too overwhelmed after someone in the parking lot cuts him off and climbs back in the passenger’s seat again.

Then, the drive gets long and nothing helps. He tries music, he tries audiobooks, he tries the crossword puzzles on his phone that Richie always ends up having to help him with. None of it works and hours keep getting tacked on to the travel time. Bad weather keeps them from going too fast, traffic for Derry’s winter film festival keeps them from going at all once they’re close enough to see the welcome sign. The sky is pitch black and bleeding frozen tears by the time they get within the city lines, sparsely illuminated by cracks of blinding lightning. The echoing thunder and staticky radio are the two things preventing the car from being totally silent. Richie doesn’t dare to try and make a joke. Eddie doesn’t dare to try and talk at all, no words will come out anyway. All he thinks is that it’s too appropriate — the dark sky, the humming world, the tense atmosphere.

This is exactly how he left her, alone and cold and angry. Maybe it’s karma.

This is exactly how she made him feel, alone and cold and angry. Maybe she’s still trying.

Thoughts dissipate, vaporized like water against sizzling, hot pavement, when the car lurches to a stop by the curb. The house hasn’t changed. The weight of its frame drags Eddie beneath the soil and buries him under the floorboards. He can hear Richie’s seat belt unbuckle but doesn’t reach for his own. He just stares. Dilapidated brick fronts and white chipping porches, overgrown with green that she never bothered to get rid of or trim. The door is the worst part. The dingy, warped wood that he painted navy in his senior year of high school after scribbling the word _ help _ under the peephole while waiting for the mail. _ House arrest blue, _ he thinks. The snow-stained window fogs with his breath, he draws an X over each of his aunts’ three cars in the driveway.

“We can still stay at a motel if it’ll be easier.” Richie’s hand finds his wrist. A small comfort, the only thing he can do to let Eddie know that he sees the house in all its horror too.

“All of them are booked up anyway.” Eddie frowns, slumping back into his seat (he couldn’t not check during the trip). He counts each heavy beat of his heart, trying to remember his set of rules for home. It’s harder to think. He knows this isn’t home anymore, that it never was. He knows where home is — _ who _ it is — and it’s in this idling car with him, watching the windshield wipers bat away all the new snowflakes to avoid looking at the suburban bastille they’ll be sleeping in. Thunder rolls and he remembers the rules again, taking a deep breath. _ Be on your guard. _ The sky lights up. _ Notice everything. _ Richie turns the key. _ Don’t stop looking over your shoulder. _ The engine stops. _ Hide everything. _ He decides that only a few of them matter now. She isn’t there to haunt him.

“Okay,” Eddie says. They climb out of the car and grab their bags from the trunk. The steps toward the house are slow, shuffling, skidding. “You’re about to go into the snake pit, you know.” He has to warn him, but no amount of warning will be enough. Nothing quite lives up to the jarring shock that are the things his aunts say. “They’re almost exactly like her.” They are exactly like her; if genetic cloning exists then it was perfected by his grandparents, four identical daughters both in appearance and personality. He used to think she split herself into four separate bodies just to torment him more.

“How polite do I have to be?” Richie asks. It feels like they’re moving a sidewalk square at a time. They are. The salt and ice crunch beneath their shoes and their hands find each other in the biting cold, as if they need another reason to miss the car. Eddie feels like a prisoner approaching the gallows, seeing his death so clearly but unable to stop it. He feels like the audience, watching Richie try on nooses and holding his breath until the barrel is inevitably kicked out from under his feet.

“Only as polite as they are. They’re gonna say a lot of shit. We’re just gonna hide our bags in my old room and go.” He says it so nonchalantly, the way he always does when he talks about his childhood habits, and Richie tries not to look at him with the mortified expression everyone gets when this happens. He fails, briefly, and then shakes his head. He can’t not ask.

“Hide?” His eyebrows furrow, half-hidden behind the frames of his glasses. Snowflakes keep landing on the lenses and he’s got half a mind to take them off.

“They’ll go through our stuff.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah, I know.” Eddie tries not to dwell on it for too long. He knows — of course, he knows — that it’s not normal. He doesn’t need any more reminders and Richie understands, he always does.

“Where’re we gonna go?” They stop at the door and the welcome mat, seemingly unused, feels like an omen. Eddie reaches into the porchlight and finds the key still hidden as if she hoped he’d come back and need it. He pushes the thought away. Coming back would have killed him.

“Movie theater, diner, I don’t care. Just not here,” he says. The lock clicks and the door squeaks when it opens. His aunts are there before he can blink, ready to greet him until their eyes land on Richie, then they stop dead in their tracks. He could breathe in the feeling it gives him. The thought of their expectations shattered, instead of him alone there’s gangly, wild Richie by his side. The so-called angelic nephew on the arm of a man with a devilish smile. He likes the idea.

“Oh, who’s this?” The vein in Agatha’s forehead pulses and Eddie swears that Sonia’s possessed her. He knows that look so well. A need to be cruel but a want to preserve a positive reputation, if only they knew that everyone sees through it. “I didn’t know you were bringing a friend.” Fear bubbles up in his chest and he almost jumps at the sound of the door closing behind him. _ Trapped. _ He squeezes Richie’s hand and remembers he's not here alone. _ Not trapped, _ he assures himself. He starts up the stairs quickly, dragging Richie behind and not bothering to correct them just yet. He doesn't give them any explanation, slamming the door shut and dropping their bags on the floor.

His childhood bedroom doesn’t look like a child lived in it at all. No posters because _ you can hurt yourself with the tacks, Eddie. _ No colorful blankets because _ you’re allergic to the dyes, Eddie. _ No area rugs because _ you’ll trip on it and crack your skull open, Eddie. _ The somber sight of it, the sterile smell of it, the frigid feel of it — all painful. The worst part, at least for Richie, is the realization that the room almost looks like it could be in a hospital. It’s old news for Eddie; he kneels near the dresser, opens the lowest drawer, and takes out the false bottom. He hides their bags under it and _ feels _ Richie staring at him.

“Eds…” His voice is shaken, unable to conjure up anything more. But, it’s enough. Eddie looks at him, over his shoulder, and sees the heartache. He fixes and shuts the drawer after grabbing his wallet from the bag.

“I know.”

“That’s—”

_ “I know.” _ He doesn’t want to delve into it now, they sit on the edge of the bed and the thud of the frame against the wall almost makes him jump. Richie’s eyes wander, stumbling along new details to take in, and Eddie’s struck with a realization that makes his shoulders tense up. He can’t think of a time that anyone besides him or Sonia’s been in this room; no girls and certainly no boys. He can’t tell if he’s shocked that his boyfriend is here or ashamed that this is how it had to happen. Before any of that, he’s elated — a stupid, unearned giddiness that makes him feel like a teenager because there’s a _ boy _ in his room and it’s Richie.

“You’re the first guy I’ve ever had in here, you know.” He tries to make it sound absent-minded, watching the snow dance under the lightning’s quick spotlights and dragging his hand across the worn denim of Richie’s jeans; the heat of his thigh sends sparks up his fingertips and toward his chest.

“Well, I’m just honored, Eddie Spaghetti.” He just raises his eyebrows, unsure of where Eddie’s going to go with it, and lays on the thick Southern accent. Ignoring the hand so slowly creeping closer toward his belt seems impossible, but he manages. Any of the normal thoughts he’d have (the dirty ones, mostly) in a situation like this are blown apart when the weight of Eddie’s words settle in his chest, replaced only by hesitant silence.

“I love you.” A breathless, desperate voice. He’s been saying it like that a lot lately, since Stan and the things he said that Richie still hasn’t seen. They don’t talk about it and the rest of the Losers don’t push it, it isn’t important right now. Eddie burrows into his side and presses a kiss to the closest patch of bare skin he can find, his hand brushes against the zipper of Richie’s jeans and he can feel him sit up straighter. “Let’s just bail on our plans tomorrow and fool around in here all day.”

“Why, Eddie, what would they think?” He puts his hand on his chest, fake-offended with a scandalous tone of voice; all Eddie can do is roll his eyes and smile. Is it easier to just pretend like things are normal? To pretend they’re only on a normal holiday for normal nostalgic reasons because they’re normal people? It feels fake, a little bit of truth shines through every movement they make.

“I bet they think we’re fucking in here anyway, that you’re _ such _ a bad influence and must be taking advantage of me. I’m also calling it that they’re gonna imply I turned gay because of your huge, magic dick.” They try to laugh, just a little, even though it isn’t funny and then the truth manages to evaporate everything else. Smiles disappear. The presence of the house starts pressing down on their shoulders, wooden beams and rusted nails like weights and hooks; a brief glimpse into Eddie’s childhood, but enough to freeze the blood in Richie’s veins.

It’s hard to imagine silence being so loud, to see the absence of their voices as a pulsating, breathing creature. There’s no other way to see it, though. The white noise makes it seem all the more obvious between rolling thunder, muffled voices, and humming heating units. Moments like this aren’t common because comfortable silence doesn’t exist for them. Richie rarely stops running his mouth, even in bed, and Eddie isn’t much better, especially when he’s worked up. Silence happens in somber moments and sleep, where no one can bring themselves to speak from either low spirits or lethargy. There have been too many of these intermissions today. The worst part is their powerlessness to stop them, it slips out from beneath their feet like sand and they fall into the bottom half of the hourglass — stuck.

“How are you even related to people like that?” Richie asks. The million-dollar question; one that brews doubt and festers in the back of Eddie’s head, the one that poisoned the idea of wanting kids, the one that keeps him up at night. _ It’s in his blood, isn’t it? _ But, he doesn’t want to delve into it now. Richie avoids the topic a lot, ever since his last birthday at least. Watching him interact with his younger family members, how he never loses patience or seems to get tired, it brought the question to the tip of Eddie’s tongue at the end of the night. And Richie tried, so hard, to make it seem like it wasn’t important, but he couldn’t hide the soft smile that bloomed across his face. _ Of course,_ he wants kids, but he wasn’t about to ask Eddie why he didn’t.

“How about I take you and your huge, magic dick to the film festival so we can queer up the back row?” Eddie can’t stand it anymore, standing up and heading toward the door. Richie follows, tossing him the car keys after he remembers that he has absolutely no idea where he’s going.

“That almost sounds suggestive.” 

“You’ll just have to find out.” He says, snaking his arm around Richie’s waist and reaching down to squeeze his butt; Richie’s laugh is a song. The floor squeaks when they walk down the hall and they don’t acknowledge his aunts on their way out, only saying they’ll be back later. Eddie knows all the shortcuts, getting them there in no time at all.

The second they walk into the Aladdin, Richie’s face lights up at the sight of Casablanca playing for the film festival’s Classics Night. There are no other shows or times for him to look at, paying in a hurry and getting popcorn before racing to their seats. It isn’t like they have to, though. How crowded could the movies be in Derry at six in the evening on a Wednesday? They’re the only ones in the whole theatre, so Richie spends all of the commercials telling him how much he loves this movie, how he thinks it’s one of the best films ever made, and how he can’t believe that he’s never seen it before.

Eddie tries to watch, he really does. By the time As Time Goes By is played, he’s totally invested but, before that, he’s consumed with joy. One more bout of stupid, unearned giddiness — going to the movies, on a date, with a _ boy _ in Derry. Yet another experience he didn’t think he’d get to have. It’s buzzing in the back of his head until the very end and even when it’s over, when he and Richie make their way to Eileen’s, the family-owned diner that makes the best curly fries Eddie’s ever had.

“I literally _ can’t _ believe you told me Jurassic Park was your favorite movie instead of that.” His voice is lost in the sounds of old music and loud kids. They aren’t alone this time, every high school student spends their free time at Eileen’s and Eddie used to be one of them. Now, it feels the best kind of different. Richie keeps dipping his finger in the mound of whipped cream from his milkshake, licking it off in a way that drives Eddie up the wall.

“I wanted you to think I was cool.”

“I never thought you were cool, Trashmouth.” Eddie can’t stop the smile that tugs at the corners of his lips. _ I’m lying, _it says. As mad as he is at Stan, he’s right about one thing. The way Eddie looks at Richie is something to be marveled at — like he’s a genius, like he’s an angel who puts the stars in the sky, like he’s the coolest fucking person on the planet. He’s all of those things to him.

“Oh my god, Eddie! It’s been so long since I’ve seen you here.” His head snaps up at the familiar voice and a familiar sight accompanies it; he remembers Dawn well, the sweet night-shift waitress who always gave him free coffee, and his heart warms at the sight of her walking to the table. He scrambles to stand, the starch-stiff fabric of her uniform feels harsh against his skin when she opens her arms to him, and invites her to sit with them but she waves him off, too busy.

“How’ve you been?”

“Same old, honey.” Her eyes flicker toward Richie then back to him, a smile pulls her red-painted lips tighter and she clicks her pen. “Looks like there’s something new with you, though.” She holds up her notepad, hiding her face from Richie’s view, and mouths the word _ cute. _Eddie damn near glows. He’s not sure how she knows, not quite sure he wants to ask, but he’s glad he doesn’t have to explain or fumble awkwardly around the topic.

The rest of their time at the diner goes just as smoothly, if not better. Dawn spends her first break catching up with Eddie and he thinks, for the first time, that Derry was only poisonous because of his mother, that things are already better there without her. Their night takes a turn once they drive back, terrifying once they step through the front door. He has Richie go straight up the stairs, not wanting him to hear any of the things he knows his aunts will say. Suddenly, Derry is poisonous again. They loom around him, circling like sharks in the water.

“Sweetie, you know you’re always welcome here, but you should’ve asked before you brought a guest,” Gertie says. She blocks the steps, a hand on the banister that he’s sure would allow him to slip under her arm with ease. He’s used to forming escape plans in this house, what’s another?

“This is my house.” He stands his ground anyway, not acknowledging the teeming questions in the back of his head. _ Is _this his house now? Would he even want it? What they don’t know, he decides, won’t hurt them. Let them believe the floors they stand on are his, that he can cast them out like unholy demons with just a few words. Let them believe he’ll do it if pushed too far.

“We know, but are you sure Sonia would’ve wanted—”

“I don’t care what she wanted.”

“That’s a very rude thing to say.” Edith sounds just like her, voice knit with all the guilt-tripping she can muster up. It doesn’t work. “She told us all about how you treated her, you know. All those horrible things you said are probably what killed her.” For a moment, as his aunt yowls on, Eddie’s confidence gets tripped up. Years of hearing words with that exact message. _ If you go to college and leave me, I’m going to get sick. _ The fire lights back up in his chest. _ If you stop calling every month, I’ll be bedridden. _The smoke and heat rise in his throat; they have nowhere to go but out. His fingers curl and eyebrows furrow, he can only listen for so long before spitting embers.

“Maybe she deserved it,” he says. There’s no guilt, not even with the mortification in their eyes. He probably should feel guilty, at least a little, but doesn’t. He’s finally happy and, if hearing that killed her, she deserved that final blow.

“Don’t you say that,” Agatha snaps. In spite of his anger, the way his aunts switch off to speak — saying the same things in almost the same voice — is unsettling. It isn’t enough to snuff out the fire, it almost fuels it.

“Fuck off.” The mortification turns to complete shock, all three open their mouths to argue with him but he holds a hand up and they close them. “I’m here because I’m being polite and I’m going to the funeral because it’s the only thing I’m ever doing for her again. I’m not dealing with any of your crap, I don’t have time for it. If you say shit to Richie or me, I’m leaving. If you act civil, then we’ll be nice.” The instant he takes a step, Gertie moves out of his way. He’s halfway up the steps before deciding to say more, raising his voice to do it.

“I’ll be upstairs with my _ gay _ boyfriend, fucking in my _ gay _bed, if you wanna bother me.” He can still hear the murmuring after slamming his door shut — he locks it too. Richie sits on the edge of his bed, wide-eyed and blushing. The fire finally dies, Eddie can feel the heat leftover in his cheeks. “I was kidding, I’m way too full of fries and milkshakes for that.”

“Can’t imagine this place exactly sets the mood either.” He says, kicking off his shoes and slipping out of his jeans. The storm outside starts up again once Eddie shuts off the lights; crawling into bed with him, even here, is the best part of his day. He’s the big spoon this time, arms wrapped snugly around Richie’s waist and chin nuzzled into the crook of his neck.

“That felt really good though, telling them off.”

“Better than my huge, magic dick?”

“Mm, I dunno about that. You’re pretty goddamn talented.”

★★★

All they pass are evergreens and bare maples, painted with a thin layer of snow from last night and towering over the lonely road. It’s easy to enjoy it with the heat blasting a molten breeze. Eddie feels like the death-row prisoner again, each street sign another day closer to his execution. And Richie, hand reaching across the center console to find a place on his shoulder, can see it written across his face.

Neither of them knows how to feel. Eddie met with Sonia’s lawyer and learned that he gets _ everything _ — the house and everything in it, her savings, her retirement fund, her life insurance policy. Even after taxes, he has enough to pay off his loans and then some. He won’t have to worry about money for years if he’s smart. He feels relieved and feels bad for feeling relieved at the same time; Richie hasn’t been able to think of what to say the entire drive back. The car skids to a stop before he can say anything, before an old sign that’s painted letters chipped off a while ago, and turns down a dirt path before he can ask why.

They park near the edge of a cliff overlooking the water and Eddie gets out, hoisting himself up on the hood to get a better view. He hasn’t been here since he was eighteen, since he learned all about his mother’s lies and had already been accepted to his top school. He slept here the first of those three nights — bundled up and in his car. It’s an eerie parallel until Richie sits beside him.

“It’s pretty here.” His voice is almost lost in the sound of the water hitting the rocks, harmonizing with the wind and sparse whirls of passing cars. Curls whip into his face and over the lenses of his glasses, he tries not to be bothered but he hates the cold.

“Used to come here when I didn’t wanna go home. Old habits, I guess.” Eddie doesn’t look at him, eyes fixed on the sheen of the moon’s light off the water. They've been out all day and don't want to go back. The screaming match that ensued after they found out Richie slept there has the both of them about one more outburst away from taking Went up on his offer to pay for a motel room. They haven't mentioned it to either of them about the things that were said whenever they text or call for an update. Eddie knows better than to expect anything less than another argument once he comes back with Richie on his arm again. This time, though, he won’t let them get a word in.

“Thanks, you know, for coming up here for this.” 

“You needed me, I wasn’t gonna say no.”

“I don’t even know why I was upset when I found out.” He barely realizes that he says it, unconsciously overwhelmed by the feeling of Richie’s hand rubbing his arm. “She was so fucking terrible to me and I still feel like, I dunno, there was a chance somehow. And now there isn’t one. I used to hope that, if I were a good enough son for her, she might change.” It feels like Thanksgiving again, only colder and more depressing. The colors of the world look duller too.

“People like that seldom change.” He says, sounding like he’s talking through his teeth. Eddie hears the flicker of a lighter and something in him drops, lifting back up when he looks over to see a joint cushioned by his bottom lip. A small, sincere smile blooms and he offers it, pinned between two fingers. The burn in Eddie’s chest is, for once, welcomed because of the frigid air.

“Maggie did it for you.” The smoke dances toward the sky and they keep switching off, Richie holds it for him when he doesn’t want to take his hands out of his pockets. That’s been the worst part about learning how Maggie used to be, knowing that parents _ can _ change if they want to. Could Sonia change? Did she just not want to try? Was Eddie not worth it? Another touch from Richie’s hand and the questions wither away.

“She made me latch-key kid, she didn’t—” he stops, cautious not to cross a line. But, they both know what he wants to say. _ She didn’t abuse me. _ They know how Eddie feels about that word; he hardly uses it, no matter how appropriately it fits the situation. They know how Richie feels about that word, he still refuses to admit it but it’s appropriate to him too. “You are a good son, you know.”

“Yeah, well, she didn’t—”

“I’m not talking about Sonia,” he says abruptly. The name is bitter in his mouth. Eddie looks at him, confused, before realizing that he means Maggie and Went. His heart swells and shrinks like a balloon, they never talk about this. “You don’t see it, I know you don’t, but sometimes I think they forget what the house was like before you moved in.”

“Seems the same as when I came for Christmas before.” He doesn’t know if he can talk about this. Technical adoptive parents but, at the same time, the total opposite. He knows the ongoing stereotype, you’re supposed to hate your in-laws (and he knows they aren’t his in-laws either) but he’ll never understand if his end up being Richie’s parents. They’re everything he’s ever wanted. The Toziers, as a whole, are everything he’s ever wanted.

“Then you’re not as good at seeing through bullshit as I thought.” Richie doesn’t let up, too determined to make Eddie see what he means. Even if his brain feels like it’s swimming through syrup, even if his words aren’t exactly what he wants them to be, he has to make him see it. So, he sits up straighter, leaving his place buried in Eddie’s side, and looks at him. “It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t good. I was still angry at her, that’s why I lived on campus, and I took it out on her a lot. That Christmas you stayed was the first time I’d seen them since the semester started.”

“What changed?” Finally, Eddie looks at him too and the moonlight makes his honey eyes glow.

“I already told you, Eds. You made it change. That whole break, the week at Wildwood, and the two weeks after that. You helped with meals, always made the bed, had a fuckin’ cycle for who did laundry.” The smile is still sincere, only now for the fondness of the memories. Eddie clings to his every word, desperate to understand. “At first, everyone else was just tryna keep up and then, after you left, we realized how much happier we were with you around. Things were better.” The smile gets softer, more affectionate. He starts tracing patterns into the skin of Eddie’s arm — circles, swirls, and squiggles. “It wasn’t about the cooking or cleaning, it was about you being there. You were like glue.”

“Glue?” Eddie makes a face, voice laced with the same tone of _ are you serious _ that Richie’s come to know very well.

“Yeah, keeping us all together and shit,” he says. They both know it’s cliché and they both know it’s not entirely true; they were a family before him, after all, just not a healthy one. Even knowing those things, neither care. It’s too sweet a sentiment for Eddie to roll his eyes or Richie to cringe at its cheesiness. “When Ren was stuck on homework or just fed up with something, you’d sit down with her and figure it out. When Maggie finished another book, you’d ask her all about it and read the next one with her. When Went was still working on that piece of shit in the garage, you’d sneak in at night and it’d be fixed the next morning.” The best part, to Richie, is the conversation all three of them had when Eddie was out of the house. None of them had even noticed that their experiences weren’t singular until Went mentioned the sudden, almost magical repair of the car. It’s what made them decide to ask Eddie to move in, even if Richie would’ve asked anyway.

“I didn’t know Went noticed any of that. I was trying to be stealthy — a ninja mechanic.” Eddie says, and the quarry floods with Richie’s laughter. The moon casts silver light on his freckled skin, shadows a midnight kiss in the depths of his features. All he can think is that he loves him, that he makes everywhere more beautiful just by being there. _ Even Derry, _ he thinks. _ How does he make Derry beautiful? _

“If you wanted to be stealthy, you shouldn’t have been showering at three in the morning.”

“I was covered in oil! What do you expect me to just get back in bed like an animal?”

“While we’re on the subject, Ren also knows that it’s you who got her past the card castle part of that Alice game.”

“Oh I wasn’t trying to be stealthy about that, watching her curse out an inanimate object was funny at first but I started fearing for the wall’s life once she started throwing the controller.” He’d watched her try and fail for days to no avail, stuck on the same puzzle no matter how many walkthroughs she’d looked up. Laughter floods the quarry again, filling up the night sky. Another one of the more frequent silent spells settles between them. They’ve been getting better at ending them in the past few days. Richie’s shoulders drop, smile waning, and he starts tracing patterns again.

“That’s what I mean, though. You care and show it all the time and you never expect anyone to repay you.” There’s wonder in his expression, the adoration that always shines through when he talks about him.

“I always did stuff like that, Rich. I thought everyone else did too.” Everyone without mothers like his, he means. He acted the way he had around the Toziers upon first meeting them because he thought that’s how regular families were. And Richie knows, he’s never not noticed. 

“Sometimes,” he says, “after you leave the room, one of them will look at me and tell me how lucky I am. Like I know how the fuck I managed to score a hottie like you.” A shit-eating grin blossoms and Eddie rolls his eyes.

“How romantic.”

“Hey, if I get all sappy and Hallmark then you know you’ll end up wanting to take your pants off and it’s cold as a motherfucker out here.” He’s right too. Most of Richie’s lovestruck rambles, as of late, have ended in sex (just like everything else). Eddie doesn’t mean for that routine to be set, but he can hardly help himself. It swarms his brain, teeming under his skin until he has no way to let it out other than moaning Richie’s name; it’s the same the other way around.

“Trust me, the cold probably already murdered any chance of you getting laid tonight. But, even if it hasn’t, we do have a car.” Just like that Richie changes his mind. Not for the probability of continuing their ongoing streak, but for the gleam in Eddie’s eyes, how he nuzzles into his side and looks at him like he’s an angel come to earth.

“I really don’t know how I got so lucky,” he lowers his voice, “sometimes I look at you and I can’t believe you’re actually there — that you actually love me. Sometimes...” he trails off. Sincerity doesn’t scare him anymore, not when it’s for Eddie, but there’s hesitation somewhere in his expression; a want to get the words right this time. “Sometimes I think, as long as I have you, that’d be enough.” He wants to say more, to describe how, even though he dreams big, he’d cast them all aside to be with him. What are things like fame and money if he can’t come home to him? Why would he want to create that metropolitan daydream without him? What is it all for if not him?

He wants to say more, but his mind sweeps all the words away. He just looks at Eddie and kisses the top of his head. It doesn’t take long for them to stumble back into the car, too affected by the biting wind to ignore it. After cranking the heat up and finding a slow playlist to keep just faint enough to still hear the sounds of the night, they’re huddled in the back seat. Wrapped up in the blanket Went insists they keep in case they break down, Richie’s slumped against the door with legs thrown across the seat for Eddie to lay between. He lays his head on his chest and they stare up at the sky through the sunroof.

Moon and stars hidden by clouds, the world is ink black and the distant glow of golden street lamps is a fuzzy halo on Richie’s hair. In the mess of limbs and Acrilan, his hand finds Eddie’s forearm and the patterns start up yet again. He thinks, in his imagined alternate universe, that being in Derry could’ve been bearable — even _ enjoyable _ — had Richie always been here with him.

“Wanna hear a story?” Eddie asks, warmth radiating off of Richie’s body could lull him into a week-long slumber. The patterns don’t help; a reminder of nights where sleep is unobtainable, pictures painted on his back and washed off only to be recreated after. “I have this version of us in my head that would’ve been if things were fair.”

“Fair?” The patterns slow, just for a moment, and his voice blends with the hum of the car.

“If my dad didn’t die and if you were never sad.” He can feel the sharp breath that Richie takes. There’s more to it than that, but neither will say it. _ If Went was your real dad. _ They don’t need reminders, not with how many they’ve been getting as of late. _ If my mother wasn’t an abusive piece of shit. _ Everything feels like a pop-up notification from older, far worse times. _ If, if, if. _It’s hard not to be angry, not to think of how much better others have had it and hate them for it. It’s hard not to be cruel or spiteful; one of the things he admires about Richie the most is the way his suffering hasn’t made him cold, he doesn’t have to be as kind-hearted as he is. Eddie has a harder time with that.

“You mean, like, if we grew up together?”

“Yeah,” he says. He loves that he knows what he wants to say, that he doesn’t have to say more, but they imagine different things. Eddie thinks of the usual slow dances at Prom and summers spent on bikes. Richie thinks of their hill, words spoken while sitting atop it that made him call Ren and cry.

“Is that what you meant before?” Eddie cranes his neck to look up at him, curiosity fogging his eyes. “On the hill, about—”

“I remember,” he says softly. How could he possibly forget? As hard as Richie had tried not to react when he said it, he could still see the way it burned itself into his skin. _ I’d do unimaginable things just to have a chance at normalcy, to be the kind of person that someone wanted. _ Something he meant, sometimes still does, and knows what it must mean to Richie too. “I guess it’s more about getting to have more time with you.” That’s what it always boils down to. He feels _ robbed _of all the time he could have had with him already, no amount will ever feel like enough. 

“Sounds nice,” he hums. His fingers curl around Eddie’s wrist and he can feel his pulse drumming through his soft skin. There’s too much he wants to say so he starts with the loudest words. “I couldn’t breathe, you know, when you said that.” Eddie lays his head back down and sighs, eyes flitting shut. He doesn’t know if he can have this conversation now.

“Rich…”

“After you left, I called Ren and I just—I cried.” The pressure of Eddie’s body against his seems so much heavier. It’s a kind of moment that they’ve only shared a small number of times, where the surrounding world is a mess and life is strange but they have each other, and it’s enough. “You didn’t think you were someone who could be wanted and I wanted you so fucking much. You were my normal,” he says, barely composed, “and you still are.”

Eddie’s heart stumbles, a soft but steady echo through his chest.

He doesn’t know why, he knows Richie loved him then and it's not a shock to hear. Maybe because he’s only ever heard this story from Ren’s perspective or maybe because Richie never fails to make his mind fuzzy when he talks like this. The sincerity may not be something feared, but it sure as hell has him unprepared. He says whatever words first come to mind and knows they won’t be enough to unearth the lovesick mess inside.

“You make me feel wanted.”

“I know,” Richie whispers. He presses his lips to the top of Eddie’s head and the smell of his raspberry shampoo intoxicates him. He could fall asleep right here, holding him so close. They talk to keep themselves awake for as long as they can and drive back slowly, pretending it’s because of the leftover ice and not the fact that the house is taking its toll on them. _ One more day, _ they assure themselves.

★★★

He still remembers his dad’s funeral. It’s not vivid because he was young, but he does have some vague recollection of it all. There wasn’t an empty seat, some people even stood, in a sea of dark clothes and mourning faces that he can’t distinguish; hands on his shoulder belonging to relatives on his dad’s side that he never got to see again, alienated from his life by his mother. Flowers overflowed the room and the sickly sweet smell made him nauseous. At five years old, grief-stricken and confused, he knew his dad was beloved by everyone.

What Eddie sees now speaks exactly to who Sonia was. There is no large crowd, only two rows of chairs sparsely filled. There is no abundance of flowers, only a single bouquet of wilting lilies. There’s no overwhelming sense that she was cared for either. He knows, all too well, that she rubbed people the wrong way. The overbearing, manipulative attitude she had towards him wasn’t exclusive to their household, it was a gift she bestowed unto everyone in Derry. His teachers still consider her the worst part of their jobs, even now that he’s been out of public school for years. Restaurants would dread her arrival, shrinking beneath the presence in the hopes that she’d spare them her fury (she never did). She didn’t have many friends either; only the neighbor, Ms. Tripp, and her sisters cared for her company.

Knowing this doesn’t make the sight any less pathetic. Walking up to the podium, Eddie can count on both hands the people before him, and only a few have watery eyes. Richie stays on the edge, ready to whisk him out the door with one whispered word, and concern knits itself with his brows. The microphone whines, a dull ache in Eddie’s ears, and the speech is strange.

He doesn’t have fond memories of her.

He’d tried, for hours, after his aunts asked him to deliver a eulogy last night, to think of a single one and couldn’t. Instead, he googled sample eulogy templates and tried to go from there, but none of them helped. She didn’t light up a room, she didn’t touch the hearts of all who knew her, she didn’t leave the world a better place than it was before she was born.

He couldn’t lie. So, Richie ended up writing it for him and the words are so beautiful that it makes him angry because she doesn’t deserve them; magnanimity isn’t something she should get. Full of passion instead of fanaticism, caring instead of smothering, and ambitious instead of controlling. He hates it, but reads anyway, pretending to be the perfect son for as long as he can stomach. _ It’s the only thing I’m ever doing for her again. _ His aunts are bawling once it’s over and he can’t slip out unnoticed before they block the door.

Somehow, the after is worse — a forced outing at Eileen’s with far too many people for his liking. He stays tight to Richie’s side, unable to withstand yet another attempt at getting him to be close to Ms. Tripp’s daughter, Myra. Sonia’s tried and failed for years to set them up and he doesn’t have the patience to be polite anymore, especially after seeing how they treat Dawn. Both he and Richie decide that they’ll be slipping her extra tip money once it’s over, exchanging sympathetic glances from across the restaurant; all three of them know there are far better places to be, with far better company than the other five women.

It doesn’t help the flames. Every attempt at small talk about or in relation to Sonia gets rejected. Ms. Tripp tries to lighten the mood by commenting on the house, he tells her he’s already put it on the market. Edith asks why he doesn’t want to stay in Derry, he tells her he’d rather walk into oncoming traffic. Agatha says the eulogy was beautiful and he’s ready to say it was a lie, but Myra interjects first.

“I think it’s really nice of you to come all the way up here, Richie. I don’t think I’d ever do that for a roommate.” Her voice is shrill and adenoidal, almost an ache in his ear. He knows, immediately, what’s happening despite the confusion written across Richie’s face. He doesn’t give him the chance to ask.

“He’s not my roommate,” he says. His aunts give him a glare that could turn his blood to ice, if not for the fire they stoke, and he meets it with a shit-eating grin — a dare to make a scene in such a public place. Myra’s face contorts, nose scrunched up and brows furrowed; it makes her look like Sonia and he suddenly understands why she wanted to fix them up so much.

“Your aunts said that you dorm together,” she argues. Now, Richie understands. He stays quiet, unsure of what to do until his phone rings and he steps out to answer. Eddie keeps drinking his coffee, enjoying every second of the building tension.

“I guess that’s partly right, we do live together.”

“But you’re not roommates?”

“Nope,” he pops the P and his smile grows. Myra’s nonplussed, unable to fathom the idea that someone can be gay, and his aunts are livid, faces turning red from holding it in. Ms. Tripp, at this point, has caught on and tries to tell her daughter to drop it, but she speaks anyway.

“That sounds so complicated.” She frowns, frustrated now, and the fire blazes so harshly that Eddie can feel his body burning from the inside out. The sight of Richie, pacing up and down the outside of the diner, is the only thing that calms him but it doesn’t calm him enough. He wants out and there’s no reason to stick around.

“What’s complicated about it? He’s fucking me.” There’s a clatter of silverware and plates, legs hitting the base of the table, and choking noises. All five are beet red from head to toe and he smiles, rather pleased. The look in Agatha’s eyes is devoid of anything human, an expression even Sonia couldn’t send his way. It makes the smile disappear.

“And he’ll leave after he realizes you aren’t even good enough for that,” she says coldly. Eddie stands, face twisted with disgust and shock and hurt; the chair makes a loud, skidding sound across the floor and the table shakes from the force. He opens his mouth to say something and closes it soon after, shaking his head — not worth it. Instead, he takes a deep, shaky breath and lets the fire engulf his words.

“If you step foot in that fucking house while I’m still there, I’m gonna call the fucking cops,” he spits. He thinks of other things he could have said as he leaves; better ones, violent ones, cruder ones. Nobody calls after him, but he relishes in the offended faces when he hands Dawn a wad of tens and loudly apologizes for his aunts’ rude behavior. The bell on the door rings when he throws it open. Cool, damp wind greets him and raindrops thwack against his skin and he welcomes it, hoping it hides the tears that burn in his vision. He finds Richie still on the phone, saying goodbye to Bill, and grabs the keys from his pocket.

“Hey,” he puts his phone in the newly empty pocket, “what’s up?”

“We’re leaving,” Eddie says. He unlocks the car and climbs into the driver’s seat, Richie scrambles to keep up. The cacophony of beeps and dings with the rumbling engine is gorgeous to them now, tires slashing through puddles and thumps of windshield wipers are its dissonant rhythm. Richie waits for the rant that he knows is incoming, unsure if he wants to hear the potential things that were said; he knows something happened, not bothering to ask what. He knows that it’s bad, there’s never been an instance where Sonia called that wasn’t bad and, from overhearing the previous arguments, her sisters aren’t much better.

The entire trip has been a glimpse into Eddie’s childhood that Richie can barely stomach, the house an art museum of trauma and abuse. All the pieces are by his mother, a gallery’s worth that is dedicated to the version of him she smothered. There’s no evidence of who he is now. It makes Richie feel shitty, in the most simple of terms, for a number of reasons. At night, when it’s too uncomfortable to sleep knowing the horrors that took place just inches from where his head lies, he tries to count them all. He’s only gotten through so many, eventually getting too tired to keep his eyes open or being interrupted by Eddie grabbing for him in his sleep.

The worst part, he thinks, is Eddie — how he was a hostage there for most of his life. The house is a prison, a cage, a mausoleum and yet, somehow, he can endure each walk through the exhibits without screaming. Richie almost wants him to scream, to give any indication at all of what’s been going through his head, because the radio silence is drowning him. He never wants to bottle things up again. If this is how it feels for Eddie, he’ll tell him about any goddamn thing in the world he wants.

So, he waits for the rant but it doesn’t come. At least, not until they’re inside. Eddie sets his sights on the kitchen — messy, unclean counters piled high with dishes and cracked tile floors. Richie stands frozen in the doorway and waits. It isn’t what he’s expecting.

Eddie has been angry before and, if he really thinks about it, he’s been angry for most of his life. Wrath lives like a tick embedded in his skin, feeding on memories in his blood and secreting the bitterness to take their place. No matter how many times he removes it, no matter how long it stays gone, it always shows up again eventually.

This type of anger is different in a terrifying, destructive way. 

Screaming, cursing, and throwing. 

Red cheeks, curled fists, and raw vocal cords.

Sobbing, choking, and gagging.

The result looks like a mosaic. He collapses in the minefield of broken glass and shattered ceramic plates, palms bloody from the shards that stab into his skin, and becomes the sculpture that completes the exhibit — another piece for the Kaspbrak Museum. _ Anguish in a Dated _ <strike> _ Prison _ </strike> _ Kitchen, _ the debut piece of an anonymous artist consumed with pain. He stays there and weeps, an ugly and strangled type of crying that makes the strings of Richie’s heart come undone.

“Eds,” he says softly. The cracking, crunching glass beneath his shoes gives away how close he is now. He kicks it away, clearing a space on the grimy tile, and sits beside him. “Talk to me.” Eddie won’t look up and neither of them knows what to say but the same thoughts pop up; potential crisis visits and a need to get out of this poisonous fucking town.

“I can’t,” he whispers, lifting his head to find Richie’s concerned expression. His eyes, crystalline honey, _ break _ him. From his mouth pours the contents of his head and he lets them; festering for days, they would have to spill into space and create another layer of the atmosphere before they’d stop crowding his brain. Hating his mother, wanting her to have been better, not feeling guilty, and feeling guilty for not feeling guilty — it all tumbles out. He’s not good at swallowing his words anymore, the rush of letting them out too sweet to go without it again. Finally, at the end, the honest words.

“I’m scared, okay?” He doesn’t meet his gaze, eyes falling to the aftermath on the tile. If he did look, he’d see the tenderness in his expression, slightly parted lips and surprised eyes. He keeps staring at the floor while Richie helps him stand.

“Scared of what? You’re the bravest fuckin’ person I know,” Richie says, voice emulating the softness. He knows he’s said it before, that he can’t imagine surviving the things that Eddie has, but knows he can never get through.

“Everything. I’m _ always _ scared and this all made it worse. I guess it’s easy for me to forget that people aren’t invincible…” he pauses, not wanting to put the thought out into the world, “that you’re not.”

“I’m not going anywhere, you know that.”

“I know that I know!” He cries, frustrated. Richie takes his hand, the calm to Eddie’s storm. “But there are things you can’t control or even things you can that you don’t care about. All I do is worry and it doesn’t fucking stop! Every time you leave I’m terrified it’s the last time I’ll ever see you and I love you so fucking much and I don’t know what I’d do without you. Maybe it isn’t healthy to be so codependent on someone but fucking sue me I’m in love with you!” The title of the artwork changes. _ Pathetic Man Begs Lover Not to Leave Him, _ a repurposed piece and the second installment of a series that the artist hopes will never continue_. _Everything of the past two months pulses in him like electricity he can’t let out but, through the heavy breathing and blurry tears, he tries,

“I don’t want you to put your job on hold for me and I don’t want you to resent me when I get lonely and I don’t want to start fighting over nothing. I don’t watch people fall in love with you or watch you fall in love with them. I don’t—” His own voice chokes him, twisting his throat shut until he agrees to let everything go. Richie stares, stunned and speechless. “I _ can’t _hear you thank your husband in an acceptance speech if he isn’t me or see you raise kids if they aren’t ours because I don’t fucking want a future without you,” he sobs, collapsing into Richie’s chest and holding on for dear life. Richie’s arms slip around his torso, steadying him. His fingers run through his hair and he tries to subdue the panic.

“Where did all of this come from, Eds?” They sway, slightly, in the emptiness of the kitchen and the lack of an answer makes it stop rather suddenly. Richie knows and detests the fact that he does, only asking for the inevitable confirmation. “Stan said it?”

“Yeah,” Eddie mumbles against the fabric of his shirt, “it was him.” The world is silent, submerged underwater, for a long while after. They bandage Eddie’s hand, change into comfier clothes, pack their stuff, and drive off without cleaning the mess. The static of the radio is too comforting to turn off and the sun shines for the first time since arriving in Derry, only now that they’re about to leave. But, the car turns onto the dirt road before the quarry, idling only for a few seconds before shutting off. The view is more beautiful in the sun — evergreens, aquamarine waters, and jagged cliffs previously hidden by darkness — but the reason for seeing it is uglier. Too much is reeling in either of them to end things where they did and they both know.

“You told me you didn’t believe in marriage once.” Richie breaks the silence and Eddie tries not to look as confused as he is, glancing over from the passenger’s side window to see him white-knuckling the steering wheel.

“I know.”

“What changed?”

“I fell in love with you,” he admits, “the kind of love that makes me question why I thought I never needed it at all.” He doesn’t look over again, doesn’t have to in order to picture the dumbstruck look on Richie’s face. 

“When’d you know?”

“That I loved you?”

“That you wanted to marry me.”

“We were shopping at Homegoods. It was like the second day of trying to find an area rug and I slept like shit on the couch because you started talking in your sleep. I was really cranky and you started purposefully pointing out ugly things just to hear me call you names because you knew it’d get me to laugh after I ran out of regular ones and had to make up more,” Eddie says. A golden glow lights up half of Richie’s face, sunlit star freckles and molten eyes. The orange of his hoodie is refracted onto the steering wheel, meshed with the blue of his jeans. Normally, he’d be too taken with the details to find any more words. Richie is beautiful in both the most normal and unconventional ways; sharp but soft features paired with crooked teeth, untameable curls offset by too-big glasses, and a symmetrical frame warped by lanky limbs. The details don’t matter now, not with the way Richie’s looking at him.

“Eds, that was in September.” Awe and disbelief and attempted comprehension. It’s a look that fits him, slightly parted lips and wide eyes. Eddie always loves finding that expression written into his face, second only to a few others (most of them sex-related).

“I know,” he shrugs. It gets quiet again, their hands finding each other across the center console. The cool metal of Richie’s worn-in rings presses against Eddie’s skin and their irony weighs heavy on his mind. “These last two months really sucked.” A wild understatement. Even with the sweet, short moments dispersed between chaos, there’s nothing they wouldn’t give to have another streak of good days. “I know we’re gonna have a lot of ups and downs like that because life sucks too, but Stan’s wrong. I could never love someone as much as I love you.”

“Rich…” He doesn’t want to have this conversation now, having avoided the topic for so long already and ensured he didn’t tell him what Stan said. At first, it was fear of his reaction; he realizes that, the entire time, it was worry for the conversational aftermath. He doesn’t think of marrying him anymore, not without an ache in his chest. So, if they have to talk about it, he wants it to be for a better reason.

“I’m serious, it really scares me sometimes. I didn’t know I _ could _love someone like this,” he says. He wants him to know that he means it, unable to find out how to get it across beyond simply telling him because it doesn’t feel like enough. Times in childhood, terrified that he wasn’t capable of love at all, feel so minuscule compared to this. Mornings when he hears Eddie’s tone-deaf singing from the shower or nights when he sees how peacefully he sleeps beside him, the feeling overwhelms him. How is it possible to love a person so fiercely? How can he see what he has with Eddie and not be convinced that soulmates exist, that whatever gods are out there gave him a miracle like this?

“I knew I wanted to marry you when we were playing Mortal Kombat and you called me a ‘communist fucktuba’ because I kept winning,” Richie admits. That was September too. The car floods with Eddie’s laughter and, just as it becomes in other instances like this, the world is a beautiful place. Destroying it with impulsivity would be a waste. “I don’t wanna do anything stupid right now.”

“That's new.” Eddie squeezes his hand, heart fluttering with the way Richie rolls his eyes. “But, I get it. A lot’s been happening and we should find our footing first, if we know we’re gonna do it then why does it matter when?” He can see the appreciation that shines through, weaved with the soft kiss that he places between the dips of his knuckles. Things already feel better than before, because the world can be beautiful when they have each other; maybe a reminder was all they needed.

“Wanna blow this popsicle stand?”

“Yeah,” he hums, “let’s go home.”


	17. piel basada por el sol y brisas de mar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They had Richie raid the closest grocery store this morning, a list of all ingredients for the homemade batter and fixins to tailor them for each Loser’s taste. Nearly every fruit known to man, chocolate chips, peanut butter, whipped cream, jam — you name it, he got it. Stan even swiped the flavored syrups from iHop because he knows the strawberry kind is Mike’s favorite. And Ben, of course, brought the most important thing of all: champagne for the mimosas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so Animal Crossing came out and i’ve been spending almost all my time getting into deeper and deeper debt with Tom Nook (now at 1.2 mill oof). any of y’all wanna be AC buds? i can send you a DoDo code if ya want.  
also i gave in and ended up watching Cats. holy Shit it was bad. like i *knew* it’d be bad bc i read the reviews and all of them were like “i’ve seen things no human should see” and “oh god, my eyes” (which only made me wanna watch it more tbh). but it was So Bad. i only remember like two specific moments and that’s bc they were traumatizing (i.e. the Jason Derulo one mentioned below). after experiencing that, i’m pretty sure god is dead. anyways, i hope y’all like this chapter!! i’m not personally wild about it but that’s mostly because the previous chapter and the one after this were/are more exciting for me to write. p.s. i’m hoping updates are gonna be more frequent bc ever since taking this new prescription i’ve been able to write again 🥰

**MARCH**

Eddie always wins Nines (which, for some odd reason, the Toziers call No Peek Darlene) just like he always wins every card game he plays. Poker, Rummy, Spoons — it doesn’t matter, he wins. It drives Ren up the wall, she’s taken to doing last minute things to screw him over and even plotting his downfall with Richie when they aren’t playing Spades because they  _ destroy _ when they’re partners in that one. Eddie still wins in spite of her scheming. So, it’s to her delight and everyone else’s shock when Kitty starts winning round after round.

The coffee table has become a mess of card decks, half-empty Planet Smoothie cups, and bags of chocolate-covered Twizzlers. All four of them are huddled around, barely containing chaos made from reaching hands and overlapping voices. Competitive-driven tensions are high, masked by jokes, and continuing on for another game would be  _ asking _ for a life-long card war. They keep playing anyway, having too good a time to care if this turns into another Jeopardy-esque tradition.

They’re having a celebration, of sorts, for Ren’s coming out. It went just as well as everyone expected it to, only a few random and unimportant assholes in her classes after they’d heard but she is, after all, in high school. Maggie gave her the same sappy speech that Richie got, consisting of the preordained  _ I don’t care who you love as long as they treat you right _ and a joke about leaving her bedroom door open when girls spend the night that she’s only half-serious about. Went didn’t need to give her a speech, only offering a sympathetic smile while they waited for Maggie to stop rambling and then asking the obvious question of if she’s asked Kitty to be her girlfriend yet (she hadn’t, because Kitty asked her first). Eddie got to see the aftermath of that firsthand, a familiar patch-full leather jacket slung over her shoulders and the love-drunk, giddy smile still plastered to her face.

In the short time since, in the most beautiful of ways, Ren has bloomed as a person. More comfortable in her skin, radiating confidence, and understanding of herself — things that, upon first glance, they thought she already was. This version of her is in full vibrance, brightness all the way up, and there for everyone to see. She is ultraviolet if they’ve ever seen it, her luminosity is enough to drown out the sun. A solar eclipse that lives and breathes with her.

“I still can’t believe you watched that, the trailer alone was scarier than any horror movie I’ve ever sat through,” Richie says, shifting from his place by Eddie’s side to grab more candy. He settles back in after taking the whole bag.

“I couldn’t not watch it after reading the reviews,” Kitty shrugs, “how could I heed all the warnings if they were telling me I’ve gotta see it to understand what they meant?” She’d asked Ren to watch with her too, not wanting to experience the CGI-fur monstrosity alone for fear of actually losing her sanity. Ren is lucky, however, having forgotten the movie via mental-block right after turning the TV off; she doesn’t know if that’s hilarious or concerning. At least they pirated it. “I get it now, though. I’ve felt fear on many levels but none of them will match the instant, paralyzing terror of when I thought Jason Derulo was gonna suck some cat toes.” A collective shudder goes through the four of them.

“Curiosity killed the Kitty cat.”

“Get out,” Ren says flatly, pointing to the door.

“I’m sure MooMoo appreciated it,” Richie argues.

“MooMoo was lucky enough to be asleep for it.” Eddie gestures to Kitty’s lap, where the cow cat sleeps soundly, and he tries not to look as frustrated as he is when she clears another row of cards — he’s  _ still  _ losing to her. Ren throws a coaster and it just barely misses Richie’s head, causing an uproar of fake insults that send MooMoo retreating up the stairs for refuge in a quieter place. He doesn’t like Richie, that much he’s made clear by the annoyed meows whenever he talks at too loud a volume (so, almost all the time); he loves everyone else, but none more than Ren and Kitty, who brought him home in the first place.

With the reluctance to disturb him gone, they scoot closer together but a knock at the door brings Ren to her feet. There’s whispering, hardly noticeable above the noise, until Eddie looks toward the source, then, there’s nothing. Stan is here. And, at first, there’s anger; just because he finally unblocked his number doesn’t mean he can show up like things are normal. But, Eddie sees the look on Richie’s face and the anger fizzles out. He invited him.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” Eddie says. He doesn’t let him in, walking out onto the front porch, it’s a dead giveaway — things might get ugly. They sit on the rickety bench, however unsafe, at opposite ends and don’t say a word. Eddie doesn’t know if he can find any, too anxious to try and pin down all the different emotions reeling through him, and Stan doesn’t want to start. How could he try? He sees the subtler hints, how he sits facing out toward the street and doesn’t bother to get comfortable. It only takes a few seconds of uneven breaths for him to reach in his shirt pocket, fishing out a joint with rainbow rolling paper and a lighter that almost matches. He holds it up, both a question and a peace offering, and Eddie nods, there’s no hesitation; it’s hard for him to be angry when he’s high, maybe that’s a good thing. They smoke in silence, looking at everything but each other.

The sky is so blue, it’s almost unnatural. True, electric blue — a vat of Mother Nature’s spilled hair dye for a midlife crisis makeover. The moon interrupts it like a giant hole cut through its fabric, sheer in a halo that tints the space around it green and shimmery. The air is cool, but the warmest day of the month so far; the promise of spring that people cling to now. A myriad of poems could be born from a writer’s single glance upon the world around them, but they can’t take the quiet anymore. Two months is too long a time to not have your best friend, why make it any longer? Eddie talks before Stan can open his mouth.

“I almost told you to leave.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“My mom died,” he says. It’s the only thing he can think of. He hasn’t been as angry since then, not just at Stan — at everything. “I guess it made me think of more important shit to be focusing on.” The silence after is different, but familiar. The hesitant, unsure silence that floods the space between him and everyone else he’s told about his mother. The briefest of glances has Eddie’s heart in shambles, trying to ignore how much it’s missed him. Stan stares at him, dumbstruck, and tries to figure out what he wants to say.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you,” he decides on. The guilt trilling in his head won’t let him say anything else. There used to be a time, one he misses dearly, where he’d be the first one Eddie calls in a crisis. “And that you had to go back up there,” he wonders if he’s pushing it, “and for—”

“I know you’re sorry for that.” Eddie tries to sound assertive, even a little bit, but it doesn’t shine through. He sounds brittle, on the cusp of breaking. “I’m still mad. What you did really fucking hurt and I still don’t know why you said any of it.” Then, the tears start. His fingers twitch and Stan waits because he knows more is coming; it only makes Eddie want to cry more. “I know that something in you is trying to heal. I don’t know what it is or what broke it, I never ask because I always just assumed it had something to do with that professor guy, but…” He stops again, wipes the tears from his eyes, and hands off the joint. He’s ready to say more until he sees the look on Stan’s face.

Petrified. His eyes are swimming, almost drowning, with mortification and a looming sense of sickness that Eddie can’t sieve through himself. He thinks it might be the first time he’s ever seen a person look so genuinely horror-stricken; it makes his stomach plummet. His hand finds his before he can think twice and Stan recoils, flinching at the feeling until he remembers who it is — or who it’s not.

“I don’t wanna talk about that,” he says softly. It tells Eddie everything he has to know about that and, suddenly, it’s easy for him to be angry, to be  _ vengeful.  _ But, he buries it. This isn’t the time. With Stan’s fingers digging into the back of his hand, he only hopes he’s wrong. “I just need you to know that I was an asshole. I know you know that already.” His voice is thick, tears threatening to roll down his cheeks. He pulls his hand away again, letting his fingers fiddle with the pendant on his necklace. “I let a lot of outside shit influence how I was reacting and it wasn’t right, what I said came from a real bad place. I was cruel.” He shies from Eddie’s gaze for a moment and the terror starts to dissipate, falling away from his expression. Something feels like he means he’s always cold.

“No, you’re not. I know you aren’t.”

“What I said—”

“Was cruel, yeah,” Eddie says, “and I’m still getting past it. But,  _ you’re _ not.” He knows cruelty, lived with it creeping behind every corner, and he knows what it isn’t. A heavy sigh rolls through him, thoughts of Derry that scratch at the corners of his mind. “I forgive you, Stan.” He’s  _ missed  _ him. Day after day of denying it, he’s missed him so fucking much. A smile blooms and his heart soars. They catch up on the things they’ve missed. Not all of them are good; Stan tells him how his parents got divorced, Eddie tells him about his mom, and a few other, less serious bumps in the road. There’s a lot that is good; Stan got accepted to Georgetown Law, Mike is due to hear from Johns Hopkins in the next few weeks, and the Tozier plans for Spring Break are the thing Eddie’s most looking forward to. It almost feels normal. In a lull, when there’s nothing new to mention, they hear the distant laughter from inside and long to be a part of it. They stand, legs sore from the old bench, and Stan sighs.

“I lied, you know, when you asked if I ever thought about marrying Mike. I said no. It was a lie.” The wind caresses his skin, pushing his curls from his face, and Eddie smiles.

“I know,” he says. He gestures to the house behind them. “Do you wanna stay? Play some cards? I don’t think you’ve met Kitty yet, she’s kicking my ass in there. I dunno if anyone can beat her.”

“Sounds like a challenge.”

“‘Course it does, you competitive fuck. If you’re lucky, Richie hasn’t finished off the chocolate covered Twizzlers yet.” Retreating into the house, they find out that Stan isn’t that lucky. The candy is gone and Kitty kicks his ass just as easily as she kicks everyone else’s. Her reign of victory ends hours later, when they’re too burnt out on cards and play Monopoly instead; the game goes embarrassingly quick, Richie and Ren going bankrupt only one turn after Stan sets up his gauntlet of houses and hotels. Eddie and Kitty last two turns after, leaving all the money to him (who is not, as usual, a humble winner). Richie isn’t humble when he wins either, boasting and bragging after six undefeated games of Scattergories. Ren eventually wins Clue with grace...the first time; each win after that is followed by victory laps around the living room.

The sky is baby blue once they stop. Birds sing too loudly from the trees in the yard and the curtains are drawn shut to keep out the sunlight. When Maggie and Went leave for work, they see all six of them passed out in a heap inside of a remarkably large blanket fort. Ren is drooling on Kitty’s shoulder, Eddie is burrowed into Richie’s side, and MooMoo is cozied up in the crook of Stan’s neck.

★★★

Eddie can see the slight swell of Beverly’s stomach once she opens the door. It isn’t obvious, well hidden by a cardigan that she doesn’t need to use, he only notices because he knows to look. He finds himself looking a lot, spaced out while the other Losers help Bill make breakfast; it’s the first time they’re all together again, finally able to find a rare weekend they’re all free. He doesn’t mean to stare, no one else knows yet and he doesn’t want to be the reason they find out, but his gaze wanders to the little bump whenever something else isn’t demanding his attention. It’s mostly in amazement, how such a monumental event can so casually be lived with, how there’s a _baby _forming in there. After the sixth or seventh time his eyes fall to her stomach, Beverly subtly smacks him on the head with a rolled-up magazine and tells him to help with their pancake buffet.

They had Richie raid the closest grocery store this morning, a list of all ingredients for the homemade batter and fixins to tailor them for each Loser’s taste. Nearly every fruit known to man, chocolate chips, peanut butter, whipped cream, jam — you name it, he got it. Stan even swiped the flavored syrups from iHop because he knows the strawberry kind is Mike’s favorite. And Ben, of course, brought the most important thing of all **:** champagne for the mimosas.

New Orleans-style jazz floats from the record player and the entire apartment smells like butter sizzling on a griddle and just-opened orange juice, diluted only by the tepid city air shooting from the open windows; it billows through the new curtains Beverly made from fabric she found at her go-to thrift shop. They’re all surrounding the small, rollable island once Ben starts pouring the drinks. No one can afford champagne glasses, so they use solo cups with their names scribbled on them in Sharpie. It makes it all the more obvious when Beverly doesn’t take hers.

“Yo, Ringwald, you better grab your drink before Staniel gets to it.” Richie laughs at the middle finger Stan offers up, ready to duck in case he throws his already-empty cup toward him. Beverly shrugs, holding up her water bottle in explanation.

“Not really feelin’ it today.”

“You’ve never turned down a mimosa in your life, what’s the deal?” He doesn’t catch on, no one really does; they go back to focusing on the food. Eddie tries not to smile when her eyes go to Bill, she takes a deep breath once he’s by her side.

“I’m, uh,” the music threatens to drown her out, she turns it down, “I’ve got something important to show you.” Her hand fumbles, searching through the deep pockets of her cardigan until she finds what she’s looking for. She hands it to Mike first, who the rest of the Losers, save for Bill, all crowd around. It’s a small and grainy photo, but there’s no mistaking what it is. You could hear a pin drop, deafening silence in the shock. Richie’s the first to realize or, at least, the first to react. He starts to make a joke, already has one on the tip of his tongue, when his honey eyes find Beverly’s hand clasping Bill’s. Then, the joke dies in the best of ways when they smile at him.

“HOLY  _ SHIT!”  _ he screeches, tripping over his own feet to get to them. He grabs Bill by the shoulders and shakes him. “You sly fucking dog, when the shit did this happen? I didn’t even know you got together!” Richie’s voice spurs the rest of the Losers into action, buzzing with questions and congratulations. Eddie can’t decide if he’s ever seen Beverly smile so wide before; she’s damn near glowing.

“Buh-both kinda happened at th-the suh-same time,” Bill says. His face gets a pink hue to it, washed out by the pride in his eyes once he sees Beverly lift her shirt to show Mike the small bump; it’s barely more pronounced without layers of clothing. The tattoo of a honeysuckle vine on her side is slightly distorted from the pull of her skin, sure to only warp more as time goes on. Stan manages to tear his eyes away from the ultrasound picture, Ben still stares, and Richie, for another rare moment in his life, is totally speechless at the sight. All seven pull together, grabbing onto whoever they can reach as tight as possible in a group hug. They stay that way, warmed by closeness and engulfed with a feeling of safety that was once so unknown to each of them.

Beverly cries first, trying to say how much she loves them until her voice cracks beneath the weight of that love. It’s too hard to keep track of who’s after, the rest equally as overwhelmed by the soft, mirthful sobs and the shivering that rises in her limbs. It turns into something more — the live tapestry of a found family, stitched together with all different kinds of thread, that she knows will never hurt her. Everyone feels the shift from a fleeting moment to one etched into stone. So, hearts full, they cry too. She holds her boys and they hold her.

“Does anybody else smell something burning?” Richie asks quietly. It makes them rip apart, scrambling to save the pancake before it’s too late but they aren’t fast enough. The rest of their morning stays tight to the same topic, the obvious one, with questions and answers littering the air. Mike asks when she’s due and it’s September, Stan asks where they’ll find the space and they tell him they’re going to move somewhere bigger, Richie asks how they finally hooked up and they give different versions (Beverly’s is the longer, more graphic version that has Bill’s face beet-red by the end), and Eddie doesn’t ask because he knew.

It takes a while before Richie notices Ben’s silence; he’s the only one that does, the others too excited to realize how detached he seems. It’s pouring outside when he decides to ask, brunch over and Eddie getting the car. They walk outside the apartment building, huddled under umbrellas, and Richie holds him up before he can get very far.

“Hey, man, are you alright?” Crestfallen eyes, slouched shoulders, and vacant expressions. The answer is already obvious.

“I’m good,” Ben says, just a bit too fast. Richie offers a sad, sympathetic smile and he sighs. There’s the answer. “Do you remember that one night where you got us all to come to this stupid party? Eddie really didn’t wanna go because your drinking was getting worse and you partied a little too much, but you asked him to go so he said yes.”

“Yeah, I do.” The fat raindrops splat across the pavement and patter hard against the umbrellas’ fabric. It’s cold again. Spring isn’t here just yet. “It was a while ago.” He doesn’t say it, but he’s confused as to why it’s being brought up. Of course, he remembers.

“A lot of the others went home kinda early and it was just the three of us. We weren’t really having fun because we were trying to keep you in line.” The memory is bitter tasting, burning like bile rising from Richie’s stomach. He’d all but told Ben how he felt about Eddie that night. He remembers being scared.

“What’s your point?” He doesn’t want to think about the rest.

“We turned our backs on you for two seconds and then saw you going upstairs with some guy, but Eddie thought you were too drunk to make a decision like that so he marched up the stairs and dragged you outside to my car.” Ben’s voice is on the brink of disappearing, he opens his hand out and watches the water bead on his skin. “He yelled at you the entire drive and you didn’t know why he was so worked up but I did. So, I dropped him off first because I knew you needed to talk.” The storm replaces his words, thunder that rolls above the clouds and threatens to make the sky fall. It stays quiet for as long as Richie can stand.

“Ben…”

“I said I was sorry that Eddie yelled so much and you started crying,” he says softly. And the memory tastes even worse. Too long a time spent sobbing and clawing at his own chest, he loved Eddie so much that it was painful. “I asked what was wrong and you were telling me not to bother but I just saw the look on your face and it hurt so bad because I  _ knew  _ that feeling. I knew you loved him.” Ben offers a similar smile, still sad but far more sympathetic, and the wind chills them to the bone.

“I wasn’t exactly subtle.”

“No, but I guess I never was either.”

“You loved Eddie?” They share a confused look.

“Dude, no,” he laughs, shaking his head. There’s pain woven in his eyes so seamlessly, a quick glance to the apartment building’s door that he can’t help. And, suddenly, Richie understands.

“Beverly,” he says softly. He feels ridiculous for not recognizing it sooner. He remembers the poetry club meeting, how he was only there because he and Eddie weren’t speaking that December and Ben took pity on his loneliness. He remembers sitting in the back with him, silent as people read. He remembers the poem — not the whole thing, only a line.  _ My heart burns there too. _ His eyes are wide, looking to Ben as if expecting him to tell him he’s wrong, but he doesn’t. “How long?”

“I mean, I’ve liked her since I met her. I guess I’ve known I love her since May.”

“What happened in May?” It gets quiet again and, this time, Richie can’t make himself interrupt it. He doesn’t know what to say, he watched Beverly fall in love with Bill and watched Bill fall in love with Beverly. The entire time Ben’s loved her, she’s wanted someone else. And now? His detached, distant behavior after she announced the good news makes sense.

“Long story,” he says. Richie knows him well enough to understand he’s not going to talk about it. So, he nods, not wanting to push it.

“Did you ever think about telling her?”

“Of course not,” Ben scoffs, “I’m not stupid, Rich. I knew how she felt about him, just like I knew how you and Eddie felt about each other. I don’t deserve her anyway.” His eyes find the apartment building’s door again and the honk of a car horn makes them jump. Eddie’s pulled up to the curb, music unintelligible through the closed windows, and Richie holds up a finger, asking him to wait.

“Nobody deserves Bev, she’s a goddess,” he says. They both chuckle, but it feels forced. They know it’s fake lightheartedness, even if the statement is true to them.

“I mean it, though. I don’t think anyone could love me, especially not someone like her.”

“Ben, that’s—”

“Yeah, I know. I’m working on it, at least.” The horn cuts through what would be the impending silence and Richie doesn’t have the time to think about how heavy the words really are. He holds up a finger again, a little more insistent than before, and grabs Ben by his shoulders. The umbrella starts to fall before he grabs it with his free hand, keeping Richie dry.

“Alright, Haystack, you listen to me and you listen good,” he says. The urgent, genuine tone of his voice is jarring, something so rarely heard by anyone but Eddie. “You’re a fuckin’ catch and I never wanna hear you get down on yourself like that again. I think you’re gonna find someone who’ll prove you wrong in the best of ways. They’re gonna love you so fucking much that you’ll only be able to stand there and  _ feel  _ it,”

“You’re gonna love them too, you’re gonna love them with your whole heart because that’s who you are — and you’re going to be so fucking scared and you’re going to wanna run but you won’t because that’s who you are too.” Richie keeps talking, barely taking any breaths, and Ben can only stare at him, completely dumbstruck. “You’re a loyal, kind-hearted, sexy son of a bitch and anyone in the world would be lucky to have you,”

“If it isn’t Bev, so be it. It’ll feel awful for now but you’ll heal and things will look up because they have to. People like you are  _ meant  _ to be loved, Ben. You just have to be willing to go through the hurt to feel it.” Lightning illuminates the dreary street and Ben throws his arms around him, letting the umbrellas drop. He opens his mouth, but Eddie honks again.

“I’M COMIN’, MAN!” Richie yells. He grabs his stuff, rain gathering on the lenses of his glasses, and hesitates before stepping toward the car. “Eddie’s an impatient motherfucker so I think if I keep stalling he’ll drag me home by my ear, but, text me if you need anything, yeah?” He opens the passenger door when he sees Ben nod and the music is a bit louder. They drive the opposite direction that he’s walking.

** _— messages: Haystack (1) —_ **

** _Haystack [12:38 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Thanks, Richie. _

★★★

The car engine faintly rumbles with the sound of the storm, now in its sixth day, and the screen of Eddie’s phone is assaultingly bright in the dark of the night. He waits for Richie to text him, a heads up that his late practice is over and he’ll climb into the passenger’s seat at any moment. For now, he browses through Zillow; pages upon pages of apartment listings in all of the potential cities he’s thinking of moving to with him, even if he hasn’t asked  _ when  _ it could happen. He catches Richie in his periphery, running through the rain with a hoodless jacket yanked over his head. The car shakes when he slams the door but something in him falters to contrast, hesitancy to buckle his seatbelt and let them leave the empty parking lot — it doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Can I talk to you about something kinda heavy?” And, immediately, Eddie realizes that he should’ve seen it coming. He knows that he’s been sad, knows the past few months have been weighing on him, and he still didn’t see it coming until now.

“You okay?” He shuts the engine off, but the hum doesn’t lessen. He hopes that he’s wrong. Beneath his skin, the nerves fizz and he thinks that might be where it’s from. Richie looks down, trying to find a way to phrase what he wants to say. There isn’t an easy way to say it, really. A series of things run through his mind, half-hearted jokes and long-winded explanations, but his mouth ejects his words before he can craft better ones.

“No,” he says softly. Eddie’s eyes find the tattoo of Dante's devil, fearing the worst with flickers of fluorescent-washed freckles. “It’s not like...it’s not like  _ that.  _ I’m just not in a good place right now and I think I need to tell someone so it doesn’t get worse.”

“Okay.” He’s careful. This hasn’t happened before, not without some kind of prompting event. It takes every piece of willpower he has to look at him, to not get lost in inked patterns until there’s nothing left of his mind but one question. He still remembers the way his voice sounded when he asked.  _ Do you think I’ll be happy when I’m older?  _ He knows where the hum is coming from — his phone, right before he picked up. It keeps buzzing in his chest, the center of his bones now but still somehow dissonant; the knowledge of what would’ve happened if he never answered, it makes him feel nauseous.

“Would you mind? If I...it’s a lot.” There’s a nervousness in Richie’s voice, soft but steady. Not at all a coincidence, he pulls his sleeves down and the devil is hidden. Eddie reaches his hand across the center console to take Richie’s and it’s enough. “I know this is all gonna sound scary and I don’t know how to make it come across any better.” The breath he lets out is stuttered, fingers pressing into the bones of Eddie’s knuckles. He doesn’t look at him, only straight ahead. The windshield is a blurry, distorted mess without the wipers on and they can hear the rain slap against the roof of the car without the radio.

“It’s okay if it sounds scary.” He tries not to sound terrified already. But, he is. Something heavy and radioactive sits on his heart, poisoning his blood until his whole body feels contaminated. He can feel his pulse through his fingers, or maybe it’s Richie’s or maybe it’s both, from how tight their grips are. Whosever it is, it’s fast.

“I think I’m getting bad again,” he says, “and I’m scared I’ll never be happy.” His voice cracks, air stuttering through his lungs. The humming grows louder. “I have good days and sometimes good months or longer and I love that version of me. The one you met, when I was manic, I like being him. That’s why I stopped taking my meds in the first place, I wanted to feel that high again. But then I have bad days and sometimes bad months or longer and I…” There’s a pause, a moment he has to brace himself to say it out loud. “I  _ hate  _ myself when I’m like that.” He can feel the hold on his hand loosen, but still doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t think he can. The quiet lasts too long. Agonizingly, painfully long. And the quiet is what breaks him. He rushes to fill it with more, terrified of what could happen if he doesn’t.

“I don’t wanna be sad anymore, Eddie. I don’t know what to do.” The words scoop out the contents of Eddie’s chest until he’s hollow. There’s an echoing stillness, spliced with rapid heartbeats and shallow breaths. Richie makes himself look at him now, eyes glossed with tears, and finds them rolling down his cheeks too. There’s nothing else he can say, no words that he can find to explain and no words that can make it less serious.

“Do you feel like you’re a danger to yourself?” Eddie breaks the silence. He almost can’t bear to ask, wanting so desperately to feel two soft taps on the back of his hand.  _ I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay.  _ He wants Richie to be okay, to be happy. He shakes his head no, it’s not reassuring enough. “Do I need to be worried about that changing?” A quick nod, barely noticeable, shatters the both of them. But, they don’t cry.

Eddie fights to keep from panicking; every cell that makes him up is on fire, burning and melting him while he begs himself not to picture anything that will break his heart. It doesn’t work. He imagines locked bathroom doors and vacant rooftops, desperate calls for Ren’s help and drunk slurs of his own name, a living room lit up by the lights of an ambulance and curls dancing in tepid wind.

Richie fights to keep from running; every thought in his head screams at him to burst from the car and disappear while he convinces himself that being vulnerable can’t kill him. It works. He stays where he is, bringing the back of Eddie’s hand to his lips; he doesn’t kiss him, he just likes the feeling. And it’s the feeling that jolts Eddie back into the moment.

“Tell me how to help. What can I do that’ll make things easier for you?”

“Just…I dunno,” he says. It’s new to him, telling someone that things are bad  _ before  _ he does something stupid or impulsive. “Make sure I’m safe, I guess. Lock the medicine cabinet and keep sharp stuff where I can’t find it.”

“If you’re at that point then we have to—”

“No, I’m not there.” Somewhere there’s an unspoken, haunting  _ yet.  _ But, he means it and he doesn’t want there to be one. “It’s just in case, you know? I’m gonna tell my folks too, and ask my psychiatrist about finding some meds that work better for me.” Eddie takes a deep breath, nodding furiously, and tries once more to convince himself not to panic. There’s a plan, at least. He can do that.

“We’ll figure it out, Rich.”

“Yeah?”

“‘Course we will.” A loud crack of thunder barely phases them, too focused to pay attention to anything but the tension. It feels too familiar and they feel unbearably aware of the situation. They’ve felt like this before — two fucked up kids, if they can call themselves that in their twenties, in a parking lot. But, there’s something different too. They drive, slow through the rain, and Richie falls asleep with his head against the window. Eddie can’t bear the thought of waking him up, so he doesn’t go home. He drives around the state, wandering down empty roads and listening to the playlist called  _ Pretty Boy  _ until the sun breaks from the horizon; Richie wakes up and he makes him pull over to switch seats. They tell Maggie and Went about their conversation after they get home, putting a safety plan into place for the worst-case scenario. And when they crawl into bed together, too exhausted for words, the storm ends.

★★★

Richie is still borderline unconscious by the time their plane lands in Punta Cana, having to nearly be dragged toward the baggage claim by Maggie to make sure he doesn’t get left behind in Customs. Despite Eddie having never been on a plane in his entire life before today, Richie was the one too worked up and anxious to function. He’d been dreading it for a few days leading up to the actual trip, comments about “metal tubes of death” and how “man isn’t made to fly.” The first half-hour of their flight was spent trying to distract him with crossword puzzles and audiobooks, but nothing stuck. It got to the point where he could barely talk, unable to even crack a smile at the joke made about joining the mile-high club, so Eddie gave him half a Xanax as a last resort and the lack of panic was comforting. He laid on his shoulder, drooling onto his shirt and softly snoring until they got to their gate.

Now, he almost sleeps standing up, leaning on Eddie until they pile into the bus to their hotel. The bumps in the road prevent him from sleeping at all — squished between Ren and Eddie, jostled with every pothole. The wind is warm, seeping in from the windows and whipping the curls out of his face, and the radio crackles so loudly that no one can tell what song (or genre) is supposed to be playing. The scenes they pass through are beautiful ones, blurs of overgrown greenery and colorful buildings. They sprawl out in the chairs of the lobby while Went gets them checked in.

“Are you guys alright with sleeping for a bit before dinner?” Maggie barely needs to finish the question, everyone already agreeing. Original plans of hanging out on the beach were abandoned the instant they learned their flight was at five in the morning. They go straight to the elevators, crowded in with their luggage and a few strangers.

“You and Richie are gonna get off on the next floor, Eddie,” Went says. He hands him a room key and winks, a gift not explicitly said — they get to have their privacy. If not for the kids around, Ren would make a joke. But, she holds her tongue and has a shit-eating grin as the doors close behind them. He drags Richie along until he finds their room number, then he’s more alert than ever at the prospect of having a bed to relax in.

“I’m gonna shower first, I feel disgusting.” Some habits die hard. Planes and airports, he’s decided, are appropriate reasons to feel like you’re covered in germs.

“How big is the shower?” Richie asks, turning the air down as low as it can go and kicking off his shoes. His voice is still groggy from sleep, soft and low in a way that Eddie finds both adorable and incredibly sexy. He pokes his head into the bathroom and resists all urges to cry in an HGTV-induced bliss, instead pointing for Richie to see for himself. “I’ll shower too.” Flinging their suitcase on the floor, he grabs a fistful of comfy clothes for them to change into, no regard for the folding they’d just done the night before, and the toiletry bag that Eddie double bagged with Ziplocs.

“Is that just an excuse to get me to wash your hair?” A smile creeps up on him and there’s a pause while he turns on the water. He doesn’t have to see Richie’s face to be able to picture the exact expression he has on it, a grin wide as can be and eyes that light up. Arms slip around his waist from behind and Richie rests his chin on his shoulder; he can sort of smell the coffee he spilled on his shirt earlier, stale caramel and whipped cream added in.

“Maybe,” he says, “I also kinda just wanna see you naked.”

“I’ll do it if you let me choose the temperature.”

“But, you keep it so hot,” he whines, burying his face into the crook of Eddie’s neck. He agrees anyway, only slightly intimidated by the amount of steam that the water has coming off of it. And the water is hot, enough to leave his skin raw to the touch. Eddie runs his fingers through his greasy, knotted hair and detangles it for him. Richie hasn't been listening to what he says, spaced out with the sound of running water echoing in his head. He doesn’t have to, the sound of his voice alone makes him feel grounded. The feeling of his hands sliding down his back and holding him steady is all he could focus on.

Layers of dirt and dust are softly scrubbed away, splotches of the coffee that dried on his skin take a little more than that. His fingers tangle themselves in his curls to lather pastel blue bubbles over every inch. He doesn’t do this often, saving it for times like this when Richie’s too exhausted (other times, too sad) to put any energy into taking care of himself. He melts under his touch every time, humming at the sensation of Eddie’s fingers brushing across the curves of his biceps, mimicking the feeling of the water slithering down his back. His hands are still covered in soap, the aroma of blueberry subtly flooding every corner of the room. Placed on his hips, he can feel suds rolling down the protruding skin and bones that belong to him. He can hear his pulse in his head and the water on every skin cell.

“My brain feels like mashed potatoes.” The pulse’s volume gets louder when he hears Eddie laugh.

“Almost done, then you can sleep as long as you want,” he says. It feels like Richie blinks and he’s dressed already, sitting on the edge of the bed while he channel surfs, eventually finding the Game Show Network. Eddie closes the blinds, leaving only the TV’s light to see from, and crawls into bed; he gets stuck lying on his back, not wanting to disturb Richie once he’s burrowed into his side, head resting against his chest. He presses a kiss to his cheek and shuts his eyes. Dead asleep, Richie tries to talk.

“I love you so much, Eds.”

★★★

** _— messages: clone my sleep (6) —_ **

** _Baberly [11:02 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ how’s the trip? _

** _Jeopardy Queen [11:02 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ pretty cool _ _   
_ ** _Jeopardy Queen [11:02 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ richie got sunburn so im having the time of my life _

** _Kitty Kat [11:03 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Slap him for me. _

** _Jeopardy Queen [11:03 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ of course _

** _Trashmouth [11:04 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Rude _

** _Eds [11:06 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ how’s your break going, Bev? _

** _Baberly [11:07 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ we’re visiting Bill’s parents to tell them the news and i  
_ _ can’t even drink.  
_ ** _Baberly [11:07 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ how do you think it’s going? _

** _Trashmouth [11:08 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Is Georgie there at least? _

** _Baberly [11:08 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ he’s the only saving grace.  
_ ** _Baberly [11:08 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ take advantage of the open bar. _

** _Eds [11:09 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Richie definitely has been. _

** _Trashmouth [11:09 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ And Ren _

** _Jeopardy Queen [11:10 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ yea when we arent drinking were ogling Eddie by the  
_ _ pool getting all tan _

** _Trashmouth [11:10 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Sometimes we do both  
_ ** _Trashmouth [11:10 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Masters of multitasking _

** _Kitty Kat [11:11 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** 👀 _   
_ ** _Kitty Kat [11:11 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Tanning Eddie?? _

** _Jeopardy Queen [11:13 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ shirtless tanning Eddie _

** _Kitty Kat [11:14 AM]: _ ** ** _   
_ ** 🤤

** _Eds [11:16 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ you horny bastards.  
_ ** _Eds [11:16 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ get a hobby. _

** _Baberly [11:17 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ literally everyone in this chat is thirsty for you. _

** _Kitty Kat [11:20 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ One of you please send pictures.  
_ ** _Kitty Kat [11:20 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Might make them my phone background.  
_ ** _Kitty Kat [11:20 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Sorry, Ren. _

** _Jeopardy Queen [11:21 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ no i totally get it _

** _Trashmouth [11:22 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ [TanningEddie1.img]  
_ ** _Trashmouth [11:22 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ [TanningEddie2.img]  
_ ** _Trashmouth [11:22 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ [TanningEddie3.img]  
_ ** _Trashmouth [11:22 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ [TanningEddie4.img]  
_ ** _Trashmouth [11:22 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ [TanningEddie5.img] _

** _Eds [11:23 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ jfc how many pictures have you been taking of me? _

** _Jeopardy Queen [11:24 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ a whole folders worth _

** _Trashmouth [11:24 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Talk about spank bank material _

** _Kitty Kat [11:25 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ I think if I were straight I’d spend the rest of my life  
_ _ pursuing your boyfriend, Richie. _

** _Jeopardy Queen [11:26 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ same _

** _Baberly [11:26 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ we could just form a harem. _

** _— Baberly renamed the group: Eddie’s Bitches —_ **

** _Baberly [11:27 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ seriously though, RIP Richie.  
_ ** _Baberly [11:27 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ the poor boy barely has self control at home.  
_ ** _Baberly [11:28 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ this is probably like CIA-grade torture. _

** _Eds [11:30 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ who said he needs self control here?  
_ ** _Eds [11:30 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ i’ve gotta look at him half-naked all day too.  
_ ** _Eds [11:30 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ we do need it sometimes though.  
_ ** _Eds [11:31 AM]:  
_ ** _ sex on the beach is nowhere near as enjoyable as  
_ _ movies make it out to be. _

** _Jeopardy Queen [11:32 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ every day i thank god they have their own separate  
_ _ room bc i wouldnt have the strength to carry on if i  
_ _ walked in on them again  
_ ** _Jeopardy Queen [11:32 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ and that their room isnt directly next to the rest of ours  
_ _ so i dont have to hear them either  
_ ** _Jeopardy Queen [11:32 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ i stg theyre like animals _

** _Kitty Kat [11:33 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ OK but, if it were us, we’d do the same thing. _

** _Jeopardy Queen [11:34 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ alright you got me there _

** _Baberly [11:36 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ oh, you poor soul.  
_ ** _Baberly [11:36 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ i’m so sorry you had to see that. _

** _Jeopardy Queen [11:37 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ ive never been so close to drinking bleach  
_ ** _Jeopardy Queen [11:37 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ or at the very least pouring it in my eyes _

** _Trashmouth [11:39 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Knock next time _

** _Jeopardy Queen [11:40 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ KNOCK??? ON THE LAUNDRY ROOM DOOR??  
_ ** _Jeopardy Queen [11:40 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ IN MY OWN DOMAIN? _

** _Eds [11:41 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ you’re the one who didn’t lock it, Rich. _

** _Kitty Kat [11:43 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Was it at least partially clothed or were you two like....  
_ _ really goin’ at it? _

** _Trashmouth [11:43 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ She walked in at probably the worst imaginable time  
_ _ for her sanity’s sake _

** _Jeopardy Queen [11:44 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ any time wouldve heeded the same result _

** _Trashmouth [11:45 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ So you’re telling me that the embarrassment caused by  
_ _ seeing Eddie getting fucked over the washing machine  
_ _ would have been the same as if you’d just walked in on  
_ _ me sucking his dick or something? _

** _Jeopardy Queen [11:46 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ ok no but it still wouldve sucked  
_ ** _Jeopardy Queen [11:46 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ pun intended _

** _Eds [11:47 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ did poor Kitty really have to be subjected to that mental  
_ _ image? was it not enough that Ren suffered?  
_ ** _Eds [11:47 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ i couldn’t look her in the eyes for two weeks. _

** _Baberly [11:50 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ fucking christ, Richie. at least she and Kitty were  
_ _ mostly clothed when i walked in on them. _

** _Trashmouth [11:51 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Wait, when’d that happen? _

** _Baberly [11:51 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ before i cut your hair, i went upstairs to use the  
_ _ bathroom and forgot to knock. _

** _Trashmouth [11:52 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Why do none of us fuck in our bedrooms like normal  
_ _ people? And why do none of us lock doors? _

** _Kitty Kat [11:54 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ The upstairs bathroom doesn’t lock, remember? _

** _Jeopardy Queen [11:55 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ if i wasnt a moron i couldve played it off better _

** _Baberly [11:58 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ how does one “play off” the fact that their girlfriend’s  
_ _ hand is up their skirt? _

** _Jeopardy Queen [11:59 AM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ idk maybe she was just helping me straighten it out _

** _Trashmouth [12:00 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Lol  
_ ** _Trashmouth [12:00 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Straighten _

** _Eds [12:01 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ i didn’t even know you were sleeping together. _

** _Trashmouth [12:02 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Are you blind? It was so obvious _

** _Jeopardy Queen [12:02 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ i hate to agree with him but yea _

** _Kitty Kat [12:03 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Hittin’ it since January  _ 🥴  
** _Kitty Kat [12:03 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ And I mean that in the most romantic way possible. _

** _Baberly [12:05 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Ren, i’m in love with your girlfriend. _

** _Jeopardy Queen [12:06 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ aint she a peach _

** _Eds [12:07 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ i’ve been really busy lately.  
_ ** _Eds [12:07 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ you aren’t allowed to drag me for that.  
_ ** _Eds [12:07 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ also why would i pay attention to when my future  
_ _ sister-in-law was getting laid?? _

** _Baberly [12:09 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ have you ever considered that Bill was right? _ _   
_ ** _Baberly [12:09 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ literally all we talk about is sex. _

** _Trashmouth [12:10 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ I’ll die before I admit it to his face but he is right _

** _Jeopardy Queen [12:10 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ what else would we talk about _

** _Eds [12:11 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ i’ve got nothing. _

** _Jeopardy Queen [12:12 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ exactly _

** _Baberly [12:12 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ romantic things? _

** _Trashmouth [12:14 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ That just sparks debates about whose love story is the  
_ _ cutest (and it’s mine and Eddie’s) _

** _Kitty Kat [12:20 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ REN  
_ ** _Kitty Kat [12:20 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ HOLY SHIT, PICK UP YOUR PHONE  
_ ** _Kitty Kat [12:20 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ THIS IS OF VITAL IMPORTANCE _

** _Jeopardy Queen [12:22 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ more important than tan eddie??? _

** _Kitty Kat [12:23 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Well, no, but it’s still important. _

** _Eds [12:24 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ wtf where are you watching me from? _

** _Jeopardy Queen [12:24 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ our balcony but ima head to the bar with the swings  
_ _ with richie _

** _Kitty Kat [12:26 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Get yourself a drink because I just picked up your mail  
_ _ and fed MooMoo. You got a letter from DigiPen. _

** _Jeopardy Queen [12:26 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ OHMYGODWHAT  
_ ** _Jeopardy Queen [12:26 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ DID YOU OPEN IT _

** _Kitty Kat [12:27 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ No? It’s not mine. _

** _Baberly [12:28 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ what the shit is DigiPen? _

** _Eds [12:28 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Ren’s top school.  
_ ** _Eds [12:29 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ it’s basically a college for developing video games. _

** _Jeopardy Queen [12:30 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ KITTY FOR THE LOVE OF GOD OPEN IT  
_ ** _Jeopardy Queen [12:30 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ THIS IS MY ENTIRE FUTURE  
_ ** _Jeopardy Queen [12:30 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ its literally my ticket to working at nintendo one day _

** _Trashmouth [12:32 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Oh fuck I forgot that was coming soon  
_ ** _Trashmouth [12:32 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Pick a celebratory drink _

** _Jeopardy Queen [12:33 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ what if it isnt a celebration letter _

** _Trashmouth [12:34 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Pick a sad drink too then _

** _Jeopardy Queen [12:34 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ bloody mary if its sad and pina colada if its happy _

** _Eds [12:35 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ get me a pina colada too.  
_ ** _Eds [12:35 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Kitty,,  
_ ** _Eds [12:35 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ the suspense is killing us. _

** _Kitty Kat [12:36 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Well, Richie, you heard her.  
_ ** _Kitty Kat [12:36 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Get the woman a fucking Piña Colada. _

** _Jeopardy Queen [12:36 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ WHAT HOLY SHIT _

** _Eds [12:37 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ dude, was that loud ass scream yours?  
_ ** _Eds [12:37 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ because holy shit. _

** _Trashmouth [12:38 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Yeah, it was hers and I’m deaf now _

** _Baberly [12:40 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ aww Ren congratulations ♥️♥️ _

** _Jeopardy Queen [12:41 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ kitty are you fucking with me _

** _Kitty Kat [12:41 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Nope. Our Seattle plans are officially cemented.  
_ ** _Kitty Kat [12:41 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ No backin’ out now.  
_ ** _Kitty Kat [12:41 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ You’re stuck with me _ 😍

** _Baberly [12:43 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ you’re both going to college in Seattle? _

** _Jeopardy Queen [12:43 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ we are now _

** _Eds [12:44 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Richie, we’re moving to Seattle.  
_ ** _Eds [12:44 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ i can’t live without Ren and Kitty. _

** _Trashmouth [12:46 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ No way  
_ ** _Trashmouth [12:46 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ I love them but Kitty makes me feel like the least  
_ _ successful person alive _

** _Eds [12:47 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ why? _

** _Trashmouth [12:48 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ She’s like a certifiable genius and I’m a mediocre  
_ _ almost comedian who only does like two shows a  
_ _ month if that _

** _Kitty Kat [12:51 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ I’m not a genius, I just work hard. _

** _Jeopardy Queen [12:52 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ shes lying shes definitely a genius  
_ ** _Jeopardy Queen [12:52 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ bitch got into mit AND columbia _

** _Baberly [12:54 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ holy fuck. _

** _Eds [12:55 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ why mit? _

** _Kitty Kat [12:56 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ They have a good Chemical Engineering program. _

** _Eds [12:57 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Richie’s right.  
_ ** _Eds [12:57 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ we can’t move to Seattle.  
_ ** _Eds [12:57 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ she makes me feel inadequate in almost all the life  
_ _ choices i’ve ever made. _

** _Jeopardy Queen [12:59 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ shes valedictorian too _

** _Baberly [1:00 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ i think i want Kitty to homeschool my kid. _

** _Jeopardy Queen [1:03 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ seriously my biggest issue was figuring out if i was  
_ _ attracted to her or if i wanted to be her  
_ ** _Jeopardy Queen [1:04 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ like when i met her she was wearing seven inch heels  
_ _ reading the legend of zelda encyclopedia and eating  
_ _ honey jalepeno cheese puffs with chopsticks so  
_ _ needless to say it was Gay Thoughts! by (lau)ren lorde  
_ _ tozier but i also wanted to be her protege _

** _Baberly [1:05 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ that is the most badass middle name i’ve ever heard. _

** _Eds [1:05 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Maggie named them both after her favorite poets. _

** _Trashmouth [1:06 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Audre Lorde and Richard Siken  
_ ** _Trashmouth [1:06 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ And, ironically, both of them are gay  
_ ** _Trashmouth [1:08 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Also Eddie  
_ ** _Trashmouth [1:08 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Come down to the beach  
_ ** _Trashmouth [1:09 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ We’re gonna boogie board _

** _Kitty Kat [1:12 PM]:_ ** ** _   
_ ** _ Send more pictures of him  _ 🤤

★★★

The sheer curtains dance with the gentle, humid breeze and sunlight glows a soft orange from the open balcony doors. Waves crash against the sand, distant sounds that still float through the air with the muted voices from below; running water from their bathroom and a knock on the door that Richie goes to answer. When Eddie hears the TV added, the familiar narrator from Forensic Files, he pops his head out through the doorway.

“Was that them? I’m not ready yet.”

“You don’t have to be, Ren’s still hungover so they decided to have a date night instead. Figured we probably wanted a night in anyway,” Richie answers. He’s seen this episode before (he’s seen all of them) but his attention stays on the screen — until Eddie walks back into the room. No shirt, fingers fumbling to undo his belt, and hair only half-gelled; he goes straight toward the dresser, blocking the TV to rifle through the drawers for comfier clothes.

“Thank god, I wasn’t even dressed and I’m sweating.” The muscles in his back pinch in the slightest of ways and a smile pulls at the corners of Richie’s lips. He can still see the small, bronze heart that he drew on his shoulder blade while helping with sunscreen, temporarily tanned into his skin; he left it bare on purpose, a secret he can tell him about later. The smile widens when Eddie steps out of his dress pants, a low hum slipping from his throat that catches his attention. Then, it’s his turn to smile.

The sight of Richie, propped up on one elbow on the edge of the bed, shirt unbuttoned and glasses so low on the bridge of his nose, has him climbing into his lap without a second thought. Richie meets him, sitting up to be as close as he can, hands cool against the sand-whipped skin of his chest. Eddie blindly searches for the remote, unwilling to tear himself away, and mutes the TV after a few tries. He dips his head down and can still smell the salt on his neck, leftover from hours in the ocean and sun; the taste is there too.

“Cheap move,” Richie says softly. Eddie can feel the vibrations of his voice against his lips. It’s one of his favorite things after learning the poetry in Richie’s veins. If he looks close enough, if he reads between the lines, there’s almost an instruction manual:  _ How to Make the Love of Your Life Fall Apart in the Best Ways.  _ They both know at this point that kissing Richie’s neck is like the set up to a magic trick, wait a few moments and his pants will disappear. He can already feel him hard through them.

“I know,” he pulls at the fabric of his shirt, near-frantic until it’s completely off, “but it’s so easy like that.” They get up to shed their clothes, tossing them aside with no care for where they land, but Richie still doesn’t take off his glasses; he never does, he likes being able to see him. “Could always make it worse.” Their movements aren’t stuttered or awkward anymore, a smooth and seamless choreography like they already know what the other will do, even when every touch is a welcome surprise. It’s easy — grazing touches, lingering kisses, and breathy moans.

“You know I’d get even, could make you beg.” Richie pulls him back into his lap, fingers grazing the tattoo on his ribcage, another reminder that it’s real and won’t wash away at his touch. Sloppy, lazy kisses left in a trail across his collarbones, he rolls his hips in response, unable to find words. The friction sends a shockwave through his bones.

“Like you could ever make me do anything.” He rolls his eyes, but Richie bites down on his neck and the gasp says everything it has to — if he really wanted, he  _ could  _ make him beg. Good thing he's too impatient to try, cap already popping open on the bottle of lube. There’s a number of mini ones stashed around the room, along with boxes of condoms; a precaution for a moment just like this. “I’m still good from this morning, don’t need a lot,” he says. The amount of times they’ve had sex on this trip is almost bordering on obsessive, but how can he help himself? Seeing Richie fully clothed is tempting enough, let alone half-naked and sun-kissed. Being unable to mark his skin has been the worst part, he loves to see the aftermath.  _ Maybe on our last night, _ he thinks.  _ He’ll have more hickies than tattoos when I’m done. _

“Need you,” Eddie says desperately. His breath is warm on Richie’s ear and he doesn’t have to ask twice. The praise doesn’t stop, it never stops when he starts, how easily Richie has him shaking just from this. He can, and has, come with only his hands and tongue a number of times but now isn’t going to be one of them. “I wanna ride you.” The empty feeling doesn’t bother him as much anymore, knowing it won’t last long. He hears the crinkling sound of the condom wrapper and shakes his head. “Don’t bother.”

“You sure?” A quick look. This isn’t new, condoms have only ever been a way to lessen their want to get cleaned up after. A fervent, assured nod is the only form of communication they need now. Richie’s hand finds the small of Eddie’s back, the other lining himself up to him as he sinks down so slowly. His skin feels hot and he doesn’t move at first, too wound up in the string of profanity that spews from Richie’s mouth, then another when he finally starts moving his hips. He can feel fingertips pressing against his spine, lips brushing against his chest, sea breeze cooling the inferno in his cells. But, he burns hotter, too impatient to build up a faster pace and skipping right to it. He wants him  _ now,  _ pushing his chest so his back hits the mattress and hands grip his thighs.

Richie’s breath gets caught in his throat the way it always does when he looks up at him; pink painted cheeks from a dose of too much sun, silky hair falling into his face, and a layer of sweat glistening on the bridge of his barely freckled nose. The orange light glows on half of his face, the other side shadowed in a way so soft. The glow illuminates the ring of green around his pupils, bringing it out of hiding. He doesn’t know why they don’t do this all the time, swearing that he can live and die between Eddie’s legs. The fast bouncing of his hips is enough to make him breathe again, hands wandering up his chest. It’s hard to think like this, watching Eddie try not to lose himself as he rides him, hearing the sultry moans that pour from his swollen lips.

“Eds, I...” He can’t find his voice, heart ready to burst. Eddie falters, taken slightly aback by the glassiness of Richie's eyes. There have been times, more than either of them can count, where he’s cried during or after sex and it’s just as emotional every time it happens, trying to grasp that he can actually feel that good. But, Richie’s never cried before, so he stops.

“Woah, hey, are you alright? You know that if—”

“I don’t need the safeword,” Richie says, shaking his head. He’s never needed to use it, even with the kinkier things they’ve been trying, but it doesn’t ease the concerned expression. “You just make me happy.” The words linger in the air like smoke and Eddie breathes them in, too overwhelmed to respond with anything more than a joke.

“C’mere, you sap. Lemme make you  _ really  _ happy.” And Richie understands. He sits back up, dizzy as the pace picks up again. He can only feel it; arms wrapping around his neck where Eddie’s fingers can lace themselves in those ink curls, he knows what he needs. “I’ve got you,” he breathes, the sound barely there. His pulse beats hard against his veins. The silence is new, the absence of Richie’s running mouth only lessened by slapping skin and muffled whines.

He leans back and Richie follows forward, leaving no space between them. The cool feeling of his glasses against his chest sends chills down his back. The slight change makes his core burn, using every muscle to keep from falling, and it gets more difficult to focus; rolling his hips down sends a white-hot light flickering through his vision, blinding him the deeper he feels him get. Then all he sees is white, the almost blistering touch of his dick grazing Richie’s stomach with each movement is what has his legs shaking and fingers twitching.

He doesn’t stop riding him, clamping his hand down over his mouth to muffle the loud cries; he wants to scream, to flood the atmosphere with Richie’s name, but they aren’t secluded enough for him to do it. And Richie knows, replacing Eddie’s hand with his own. He looks up at him, sight blurred from smudged and fogged glasses, and catches a glimpse of his eyes rolled back, fluttering shut, brimmed with tears. The fast, shallow breaths out of sync with his hips, he digs his nails into the red skin of Richie’s shoulders for the smallest sense of steadiness and feels him come before any words can form. He doesn’t make a sound, hand finding Eddie’s cheek to pull him into a kiss — only by definition, brain short-circuiting so he can’t move his lips.

They fall back onto the bed in a heap; Eddie lands on his side, legs draped over Richie’s waist, and hands reaching out for him through the heavy exhaustion in his bones. They lie there, bathed in the orange sun, until they can breathe again. The TV gets unmuted, a different episode of the same show — they remember it, the one they watched months ago, when things were still strange from their incident in November. It feels good to make a new association with it.

“We haven’t used that big jet tub yet,” Eddie says. The ceiling is patterned with curved shadows, the world growing dimmer. Richie barely stirs, eyes bleary. “I brought a whole bag of Lush stuff too.” That catches his attention.

“Blackberry bath bomb?”

“‘Course, baby.” He pulls himself to his feet, legs still wobbly, and grabs the bag from their suitcase. The tile floor is cold, clothes strewn across in a nonsensical mess that he tries to ignore.

“Why haven’t I married you yet?” Richie’s voice is laced with awe and Eddie knows that he’s staring at his butt. He rolls his eyes, assuming it’s a joke, and flips the bathroom lights on. It fills up the hall with a fluorescence so starkly contrasting the setting sun. Water runs from the faucet and Richie is still laying down, smiling at the muttered curse when Eddie tests the temperature. Maybe it wasn’t a joke, he’s not sure himself. He swears his heart is glowing, bleeding through his chest, soaking through the sheets beneath him. He can only bask in it, the love he has, and know that it’s probably not right to feel so strongly for one person. But, Eddie calls his name to join him and he decides, just as he does every day, that he doesn’t care if it’s wrong.


	18. so many blasted letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Music floats through the apartment, the latest song that Eddie’s been unable to get unstuck from his head for days now, and the lights of the city burst with each plucked string of an acoustic guitar; he keeps the curtains wide open to see the urban sprawl he’s turned into his own paradise. Something in him feels hopeful and buzzes with a tightness in his chest, but he doesn’t know what for; it spurs him into a twisting tension, not bad but full of energy with no place to go. So, he cooks. The smell of white wine is thick in the air, enough to wade through, and the hot, hissing water is the distant audience for his attempted serenade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’ve been thinking about writing a version of this fic from richie’s perspective but with different scenes and insights for his arc in this. i don’t think it’d be as long as this but knowing me it’d probably end up way longer than originally intended so i can’t make any promises 😬 im curious if y’all would read it tho bc i’ve got other ideas i’m working on and won’t add another unless i feel like it’d be worth it ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> also, speaking of other ideas, i’m gonna post the first chapter of a reddie fix-it soon and i’d Love it if ya checked it out 💕
> 
> also also, i’m going back and doing *intense* editing for previous chapters bc i hate letting things go unfixed and it is going to be So Much better once i’m done. some of the edits are more extreme than others, most of it’s just changes for words or fixing dumb grammar shit i let fly under my radar but a few chapters have some chunks of stuff added or tweaked. it doesn’t change the context for what’s happening or what will happen, it’s just to make it better overall bc i’m a self-deprecating little bastard and nothing i write will ever be good enough for me. so i def would suggest rereading once it’s done bc i feel like it’ll be 1000x better, rn i’m in the middle of editing the sixth chapter but i’ve been going back and looking at the ones i already edited and they’ve still got mistakes 🙃
> 
> also also also, i said before that i hoped i was gonna update more frequently but that medication i was on ended up making me feel Way Worse so i didn’t do anything for MONTHS. now i’m on nothing again so my motivation is up to total chance, eventually i’ll be on something different so we’ll see how that goes. thanks for being patient with me and my shitty mental health, i wanted this to be completed way earlier than it’s gonna end up being but what can ya do ig. i added another thing to my list of wips because working on yet another road trip fic gave me the first glimmer of serotonin i’ve seen in like nine months (and yeah that’s sad but we’re not gonna acknowledge that rn) so maybe that’ll help. i’ve also been focusing on something for a writing contest that’s been taking up a lot of my attention. and ima be real with you, this chapter was the hardest for me to write just bc of perspectives and shit. it isn’t how i thought it’d be, but i still like it.
> 
> (btw the song i was feelin’ for the first scene is Loving & Losing by Delaney Bailey)

**APRIL**

To say the kitchen is a mess would be the understatement of all understatements. There are enough mounds of flour to make it look like a drug den, so many dirty bowls stacked that they can rival the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and a minefield of cutting boards. Eddie’s never been so grateful to get a text about play practice running late again, not wanting Richie to come through the door and see _ this _as a first impression for the night. It turns out that trying to make ravioli from scratch is a total nightmare if you’ve never done it before; even with Maggie’s carefully laid out instructions, Eddie’s managed to just barely avoid fucking it up beyond all repair. What was originally estimated as a ninety-minute process has become more of a three-hour one but, in the home stretch now, he cleans up while he waits for the timer to go off and tell him when to put it through the strainer.

He gets a little too caught up in it, excitement bubbling like the tomato cream sauce. It’s his favorite thing about apartment-sitting for Bill and Beverly, having Richie alone in a place that, for the next five days, is all theirs. It came at the best possible time, between a too-long visit from Went’s mom driving them to the edge of insanity from her lack of awareness for privacy and a long stretch of depression that left Richie near-catatonic for two weeks after coming back from spring break.

Eddie got a glimpse into his depressive state in a way he never had before. He still can’t decide if it’s comforting to know he’s let his guard down or terrifying to recognize the patterns from last year. Now that it seems to be lessened, he tries to regard it as comforting. But, most mornings, he had to make him get out of bed and go to his classes, practices, or work. He didn’t always get him to shower or brush his teeth, but it’s a victory that he took his new medications consistently and it’s one that both of them accept. Getting him to eat was another story; he’s lost a lot of weight, the ridges of his ribs making an appearance for the first time since he was sixteen and still haven’t gone away. He doesn’t like to take his shirt off anymore and that, of course, contributes to the fact they haven’t had sex since leaving the resort. There were other things, some of them are more concerning than the rest but, mostly, it was the usual.

Richie would lie in bed for hours, buried beneath as many blankets as he can manage, and stare at nothing while Eddie was out. There were days he wouldn’t talk at all, offering half-hearted noises or lazy glances; he didn’t even touch his phone. If he couldn’t get out of bed, someone usually stayed home with him because they were afraid of what he might do if left alone. It went on like that until the new meds started making a change that’s noticeable.

So, now that they have, it’s hard not to think they’ve finally found their streak of good days. It started with some of Eddie’s inheritance and insurance checks being cashed, then the pills Richie takes finally kicking in, then two club venues asking him to come back for more shows, then Bill and Beverly asking him to be the godfather of their baby (and he _ absolutely _made a reference to the movie after he stopped crying). Things feel like they’re falling into place and who are they to do anything but enjoy it? Emotions have been running high in the best ways for both of them as of late.

Music floats through the apartment, the latest song that Eddie’s been unable to get unstuck from his head for days now, and the lights of the city burst with each plucked string of an acoustic guitar; he keeps the curtains wide open to see the urban sprawl he’s turned into his own paradise. Something in him feels hopeful and buzzes with a tightness in his chest, but he doesn’t know what for; it spurs him into a twisting tension, not bad but _ full _of energy with no place to go. So, he cooks. The smell of white wine is thick in the air, enough to wade through, and the hot, hissing water is the distant audience for his attempted serenade. He doesn’t hear him come in, caught mid-note, and jumps at the sound of his voice.

“This song again?” Richie teases, a smile plastered to his face. He puts his bag at the door and chuckles when Eddie keeps singing, not caring how bad it may be (and it is bad, he isn’t musical even when songs _ are _ within his range). Watching him, Richie’s heart stumbles. It shouldn’t be beautiful, at least he thinks, to see someone in mismatched knee-high socks and silk pajama shorts sing so embarrassingly bad that they could only do it alone. It shouldn’t be beautiful, at least he thinks, that Eddie knows how goofy he sounds and does it anyway. It shouldn’t be and yet it is. The staring is what makes him stop, confused at the attention. What the smile’s grown into isn’t something he sees often, only appearing in moments where Richie can’t comprehend the amount of joy surging into his heart and has no words to try. Overwhelming happiness, not mania and finally evened out, isn’t something he’s experienced a great deal of — it’s like learning how to feel again and he’d be lying if he said Eddie hasn’t spurred a lot of it in the time he’s known him, especially lately.

“What is _ that _ look for?” He makes a face, shutting the timer off before it can beep for too long and draining the pasta in the sink.

“I just love you.” Richie’s shoes thud against the floor and he grabs a bottle of cherry merlot from the bag (the real reason he was late) to put on the no longer messy counter. “And I wanna come home to you every day.” Before reaching for the corkscrew, he comes up behind Eddie and slips his arms around his waist; his lips graze his neck, blackberry chapstick and mint gum barely break through the spices, more distant is the smell of sweat from burning spotlights and thick costumes. For a moment, all that overwhelms Eddie’s brain are thoughts of nicotine, something once so familiar to him suddenly alien again.

It makes him think about time, how much of it has passed, and he drowns in the wave that swallows him. He thinks of where they were a year ago compared to now, the difficulty it took just to admit love for one another compared to the difficulty not to say it all the time. Farther back than that, he thinks of teenage years where something like this didn’t even seem possible. It overwhelms him, something to put the energy toward, and it’s not lost on him that he chooses to put it into loving Richie every time. Quick, fierce heart beats, he wants to scream at the top of his lungs until the entire galaxy hears of what he has. Richie notices it, eyes stuck on the hand that stops, briefly, before grabbing a spoon. He dips it in the sauce and holds it up for him to taste; content with the soft hum from his throat, Eddie’s body relaxes against his.

“You seem anxious.” He plants a kiss just beneath his jaw and the sparse stubble pokes him; Eddie's been too lazy to shave lately, swamped with assignments, and the realization of just how hot it looks means it’s here to stay.

“Just a little bit,” he says. Richie’s hand finds his. Fingers woven together, a quilt of skin and bone. If not the galaxy then him, though he’s not sure there’s a difference.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“Bill and Bev probably don’t want us fucking in their bed, it’s one of my Hallmark rants.”

“Beds are overrated,” Richie teases. It’s enough to help, even though he doesn’t have the stamina for it right now anyway, and he pulls back. Leaning against the fridge after shutting off the stovetop, he can see the animation better — chaotic, exhilarating, endless. Eddie makes the kitchen his roadmap, pacing across lukewarm laminate and trying to find the right words. Richie’s honeyed eyes never leave him, following each wild gesture and sudden turn. He likes having this view of him.

“This is gonna be a lot.” But, they both know that. He’s stopped writing for Gazebos & Placebos in his busyness, venting took the backburner for everything else and they’ve both noticed the effect it’s had.

“I think I can handle it, Spagheds.” A toothy, uneven grin, giving permission for whatever he wants to throw his way. Most of it’s been buzzing in him for weeks with no place to go, he’s almost memorized it.

“I was so angry, all the time, and I feel like I’d been pissed off my entire life and it was _ exhausting. _I was so fucking sick of feeling like I was constantly in mourning for the person I could’ve been and I didn’t know how to stop being angry about all the grief that I had just fucking stuck in my chest all the time,” Eddie says. He’s already short of breath, teeming with more and more words that scramble to get off his tongue. It’s a taste sweet like honey and he doesn’t want it to stop. “I wanted to be cruel! I wanted to be heartless and cold just so I didn’t have to be hurting anymore. And then...” The energy halts, almost, and the pacing stops. Eddie’s voice becomes gentle. He looks at Richie, now standing up straight, and smiles so softly.

“Then, I met you. I met you and I was so fucking scared of how much I needed you, because I never needed anybody before.” The tears find him fast, unexpected, but he powers through them. It was bound to happen, he knows. Richie does too. “For so fucking long, I thought I was going to be on my own and then you asked me if I saw myself alone forever like it was the most heartbreaking fucking thing you’d ever heard and I—” He stops, making himself find air again, and it feels like his soul is trying to burst from the seams of his skin. “I couldn’t _ breathe, _Richie, I couldn’t fucking breathe because you told me that I deserved to be loved and no one had ever said that before and I could tell you really thought it was true.”

“Eddie…” he says. His voice is brittle, close to breaking, but Eddie swears he can see his eyes glow. That smile is gone, flatlined with awe and bewitched by the words.

“After you were asleep, I locked myself in your bathroom and I cried because I didn’t know what else to do. I wanted you to love me so much and I couldn’t even admit it to myself,” Eddie keeps talking. There’s hardly any space between his words; he hasn’t talked so fast in a while, forcing himself to slow down even a little bit. “How the fuck did I even try to pretend I didn’t love you? How could I try when I could be with you and, for the first time in my life, my mind was _ quiet.” _ He’s too worked up to stop; trembling hands, wobbly knees, and falling tears. It’s hard to focus on anything else.

“You make me forget about how angry I am, like I’m not just a sad story trying to rewrite itself,” he says softly. Richie takes a sharp breath, as if trying to keep himself from crying too, but Eddie can see the subtle shaking in his shoulders when he lets it loose. He won’t be able to hold it in for long. “I don’t care about the person I could’ve been because I like who I am with you and sometimes...” He goes still and Richie can’t help it anymore, he cries — silent and joyous to the point of it radiating from his skin. He wants to tell Eddie that he didn’t just fall in love with _ him, _that he found out how to fall in love with himself too. It reaches his lips, barely, and disappears. Eddie just looks at him, heart shining so brightly as he tries to talk again. He looks at him the way Richie’s dreamt of being looked at his entire life, like the city around them could burn but it’d be okay because he has him. That part is true.

“Sometimes, I look at you and I swear that I was meant to be happy,” Eddie says, and it sounds so terrifyingly genuine that Richie can only stare at him because,_ oh god, _ those words are strong enough to bring the world to its knees if they’re coming from him. When he can’t bear to be still any longer, he finds him. Frantic hands, tear-stained cheeks, steadying grips. Eddie’s back hits the edge of the counter and he can hardly taste the mint beyond the salt. How long it’s been since the first one and how many times it’s happened doesn’t matter, kissing someone never felt so much like home to them before.

There’s no telling how long it keeps up, only that the food is cold by the time they’re sick of touching each other (they never really are) and it has to be reheated; it doesn’t matter, a small inconvenience easily overlooked. They eat on the couch, another queue of movies lined up, and Richie does the dishes when Eddie’s too tired to get up. They’re inseparable in a way they’re not sure they’ve been before, bodies tangled up and twisted while they drink the cherry merlot. There isn’t a conversation that leads to it, but movies are abandoned for scrolling through pages of apartment listings on Zillow — a promise to have their own place before summer can end.

★★★

** _— messages: pussy posse (8) —_ **

** _Totally Smitten Stan [3:16 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ we officially found a townhouse!!!!! _

** _Baberly [3:17 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ oh shit, where? _

** _Mikey [3:19 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ Laurel, MD. _

** _Trashmouth [3:20 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ Why of all places did you choose there instead of _ _  
_ _ Baltimore? _

** _Big Bill [3:21 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ because thats like _ _  
_ ** _Big Bill [3:21 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ a really far commute for stan _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [3:22 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ laurel is like smack dab in the middle of our schools _ _  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [3:22 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ and i’m relieved because i didn’t wanna have to drive _ _  
_ _ all the way down there again if we didn’t find one we _ _  
_ _ liked this time _

** _Eds [3:23 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ let’s see it, man. _

** _Mikey [3:25 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ [weirdlybrightkitchen.img] _ _  
_ ** _Mikey [3:25 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ [whitebathroom.img] _ _  
_ ** _Mikey [3:25 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ [questionablystainedbedroom.img] _ _  
_ ** _Mikey [3:25 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ [sinfulbathroom.img] _ _  
_ ** _Mikey [3:25 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ [emptylivingroom.img] _ _  
_ ** _Mikey [3:25 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ [abandonedyard.img] _

** _Haystack [3:26 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Yikes. That carpet is, uh… _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [3:27 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ trust me, we know _ ** _  
_ ** ** _Totally Smitten Stan [3:27 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ that’s gonna be the first thing to go _

** _Eds [3:29 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ i bet when we help it’ll look better. _ _  
_ ** _Eds [3:29 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ with some paint and better flooring it won’t be that bad. _

** _Trashmouth [3:30 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Whoever designed that carpet needs to be jailed for _ _  
_ _ their crimes against humanity_

**_Baberly [3:31 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ whoever put that carpet in the fucking bathroom needs _ _  
_ _ to be straight up executed _

** _Eds [3:32 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ jfc your living room is way bigger than ours too. _

** _Big Bill [3:32 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ are we all househunting? _

** _— Trashmouth renamed the group: house hunters loser edition —_ **

** _Trashmouth [3:33 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ Hopefully me and Eds will get approved for this one so _ _  
_ _ we won’t have to be anymore _ _  
_ ** _Trashmouth [3:33 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ The landlord is an older gay man who told us stories _ _  
_ _ about gay disco culture in the 70s _ _  
_ ** _Trashmouth [3:34 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ Eds went into Maximum Overdrive and he wrote him a _ _  
_ _ super long letter about having a safe place to start our _ _  
_ _ lives together that our real estate agent says will _ _  
_ _ practically guarantee us the place _

** _Haystack [3:36 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Is it close to the school Eddie’s gonna work at? _

** _Eds [3:37 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ literally a two minute walk. _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [3:37 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ wait what school _

** _Mikey [3:38 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ I second that. _

** _Eds [3:40 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ one of the high schools offered me a position. _ _  
_ ** _Eds [3:40 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ their last social worker retired and my advisor did me a _ _  
_ _ total solid and recommended me after i got my state _ _  
_ _ license approved. _ _  
_ ** _Eds [3:40 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ interviewed and shit and now i start in september. _

** _Baberly [3:42 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ holy shit, Eddie. _ _  
_ ** _Baberly [3:42 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ how are we just now hearing about this??? _ _  
_ ** _Baberly [3:42 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ we need to celebrate. _

** _Trashmouth [3:43 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ Let’s make a bunch of Jello shots for it _

** _Baberly [3:44 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ no one likes jello shots, Richie. _

** _Trashmouth [3:46 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ Yes they do _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [3:46 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ they *think* they do _

** _Eds [3:49 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ we are not having this debate again. _

** _Haystack [3:50 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ I’m still impartial. _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [3:50 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ IT TAKES SO MUCH TO GET DRUNK OFF THOSE _ _  
_ _ AND SO MUCH TIME TO MAKE THEM _

**_Trashmouth [3:51 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ YOU’RE JUST LAZY _

** _Baberly [3:51 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ IF YOU’RE HAMMERED THE LAST THING YOU _ _  
_ _ WANNA DO IS SCULP A GELATINOUS CUBE DOWN _ _  
_ _ YOUR SKUNKED THROAT _

** _Mikey [3:53 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Bev, your side just lost me because of your choice in _ _  
_ _ words. That was truly awful. -4/10. _

** _Trashmouth [3:54 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ JELLO SHOTS ARE FUN _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [3:54 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ THEYRE OVERRATED AND I WILL NOT STAND FOR _ _  
_ _ THIS NONSENSE TO GO ON ANY LONGER _ _  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [3:54 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ THE TRUTH MUST PREVAIL _

** _Baberly [3:55 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ DOWN WITH JELLO SHOTS _

** _Trashmouth [3:56 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ YEAH SLORPED DOWN MY FUCKING SLOSHED _ _  
_ _ THROAT _

** _Mikey [3:56 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Nevermind, that was worse. _

** _Eds [3:58 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ you guys ever just think like “hey, i’m a grown ass adult _ _  
_ _ and this is the type of thing i spend my time talking _ _  
_ _ about” because i do. _

** _Mikey [4:00 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ All the time. _

** _Haystack [4:01 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ So, so much. _

** _Big Bill [4:04 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ VIVA LA JELLO SHOTS _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [4:05 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ IF YOU WANT JELLO AND WANNA GET DRUNK _ _  
_ _ JUST EAT REGULAR JELLO AND DRINK _

** _Trashmouth [4:05 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ THE CONFLICTING TASTES WOULD BE AN _ _  
_ _ ABOMINATION TO MY TASTEBUDS _

** _Baberly [4:06 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ BUT THE SAME JELLO MADE WITH THE SAME _ _  
_ _ LIQUOR SOMEHOW TASTES DIFFERENT?? _

** _Mikey [4:09 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ I think if I confessed to murder right now, they wouldn’t _ _  
_ _ even notice. _

** _Haystack [4:10 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ I think anything that’s not in caps or mentions Jello is _ _  
_ _ getting ignored. _

** _Eds [4:10 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ Richie, i’m in bed wearing nothing but a jockstrap if you _ _  
_ _ read this come take me. _

** _Trashmouth [4:11 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ IT’S ABOUT THE PRODUCTIVITY _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [3:12 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ YOU’RE (barely) GETTING DRUNK WHAT NEED IS _ _  
_ _ THERE FOR PRODUCTIVITY _

** _Eds [4:13 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ Maggie just made a huge batch of special brownies _ _  
_ _ come upstairs if you want some. _

** _Big Bill [4:14 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ ONE STONE BIRD BOY _ _  
_ ** _Big Bill [4:14 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ YOU KNOW THE SAYING _

** _Baberly [4:15 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ I CANNOT BELIEVE I’M HAVING AN ACTUAL CHILD _ _  
_ _ WITH SOMEONE WHO THINKS JELLO SHOTS _ _  
_ _ AREN’T ONE OF THE DUMBEST INVENTIONS _ _  
_ _ EVER CREATED _

** _Trashmouth [4:17 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ HE’LL RAISE THAT CHILD TO BELIEVE IN JELLO _ _  
_ _ SHOTS AS GOD INTENDED _

** _Mikey [4:18 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Stan, I got my dick pierced and wanna know what sex _ _  
_ _ feels like with it. _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [4:20 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ BILL I STG IF YOU INDOCTRINATE THAT _ _  
_ _ INNOCENT CHILD I WILL CALL CPS _

** _Baberly [4:21 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ NO NEED STANIEL I’LL JUST TAKE YOU FOR A _ _  
_ _ HUSBAND AND WE’LL RAISE THEM IN A _ _  
_ _ RIGHTEOUS ANTI-JELLO SHOT WORLD _

** _Haystack [4:23 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ I just won the lottery and the first thing I’m gonna do _ _  
_ _ with my millions of dollars is pay off your student loans, _ _  
_ _ all you have to do is say if you want me to. _

** _Trashmouth [4:23 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ I’LL KIDNAP THEM FIRST _ _  
_ ** _Trashmouth [4:23 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ BILL AND I WILL GROOM THEM TO BE THE _ _  
_ _ LEADER OF OUR GLORIOUS JELLO EMPIRE _

** _Big Bill [4:25 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ WE’LL HAVE REBELS LIKE YOU AND STAN _ _  
_ _ EXECUTED FOR TREASON _

** _Haystack [4:27 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ We tried sex, drugs, and money but still nothing. Those _ _  
_ _ are like the only three things they care about. _

** _Mikey [4:28 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ What about food? _

** _Eds [4:30 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ they’re already talking about food. _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [4:30 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ wait _ _  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [4:30PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ Mike _ _  
_ ** _Totally Smitten Stan [4:30PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ did you actually get your dick pierced? _

** _Mikey [4:31 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Uh, no. _ _  
_ ** _Mikey [4:31 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Painful?? _

** _Trashmouth [4:33 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ And wouldn’t you be the first to find out anyway? _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [4:34 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ don’t you have a horny boyfriend that needs tending _ _  
_ _ to, Trashmouth? _

** _Trashmouth [4:35 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ Speak for yourself I’m already driving home _

** _Eds [4:36 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ oh i’m not home. _ _  
_ ** _Eds [4:36 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ Ren and Kitty took me bowling. _

** _Trashmouth [4:37 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ Wtf why didn’t they invite me? _

** _Baberly [4:38 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ we wanted a girls’ day. _

** _Trashmouth [4:40 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ You’re there too???? _ _  
_ ** _Trashmouth [4:40 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ Are you even allowed to bowl when you’re pregnant?? _ _  
_ ** _Trashmouth [4:40 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ And since when is Eddie included in girls’ day??? _

** _Baberly [4:41 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ Richie, it’s bowling not a roller coaster. _ _  
_ ** _Baberly [4:41 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ but i’m not anyway, my back hurts so i’ve just been _ _  
_ _ hanging out and watching. _ _  
_ ** _Baberly [4:41 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ they’ve pretty much adopted him at this point. _

** _Big Bill [4:43 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ so...eddies adoptive moms are two teenage lesbians? _

** _Totally Smitten Stan [4:44 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ i’d watch that reality show _

** _Eds [4:50 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ Maggie IS making special brownies though. _ _  
_ ** _Eds [4:50 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ we’re all gonna eat them and watch Jaws in the pool _ _  
_ _ once Went gets off work. _ _  
_ ** _Eds [4:50 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ except Bev is gonna have regular brownies. _

** _Trashmouth [4:52 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ I’m still coming home then _

** _Haystack [4:53 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ In the pool? _

** _Baberly [4:53 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ they just got a projector. _

** _Big Bill [4:55 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ oh shit can we come _

** _Trashmouth [4:56 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ You guys don’t even have to ask, just show up _

** _Big Bill [4:58 PM]:_ ** _  
_ _ omw now _

** _Haystack [5:00 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ Same. _

** _Mikey [5:06 PM]:_ ** ** _  
_ ** _ So are we. _

★★★

They’re still waiting for the landlord to approve their credit, ransacking the mail every day and answering each unknown number that pops up on their phone — always getting bills, spam, or telemarketers. It doesn’t stop them from hoping. So, the second he sees the mailman leave (whose schedule he’s memorized by now), Eddie rushes out to the edge of the driveway to go through the mailbox. Most of it, as usual, is for Maggie or Went. But, he still flips through, checking the name and looking to the next when they aren’t his or Richie’s. The last one grabs his attention. It’s a long envelope that’s light purple and almost transparent; stamps with sunflowers and pretty handwriting in black ink that stops his heart when he reads the name on the return address. _ Helena Kaspbrak. _

His brain puts him on autopilot, staring down at the letter while he walks back up to the house. The closer he gets, the quicker he moves. He thinks he might pass Richie, he thinks he might hear him ask a question but the words only sound like distant gibberish. A beeline straight for the kitchen, the silverware clangs together when he searches for a knife and rips open the envelope, managing to keep it intact enough to preserve the return address — Albany, New York. There are two pages, handwritten with the same ink. His hands shake as he holds it; vague memories, blurry and half-gone, that he can barely place.

He still tries to. Most of it comes in a quick flash, an agglomeration of senses lost to trauma, like water bursting from a pipe. A neon green kiddie pool, soft crocheted blankets, the grain of an old radio, a hallway filled with family photos, warm voices he can’t distinguish, summer air heavy with the smell of bay leaves, an upright piano with worn-out sheet music ready to be played, rows upon rows of pink rose bushes, Spider-Man bandaids on scraped-up skin, a rusted swing set, and cool terracotta tile floors. He’s not sure how much of it is real and how much of it is his brain filling in the gaps. Instead of trying to sift through and figure it out, he reads.

_ Dear Eddie,  
_ _ I’ve written and rewritten this letter so many times and I’m still not sure how to start it off. This is probably a lot to take in and I don’t mean to drop it all on you at once. I don’t know if you remember a lot about me, you were so small the last time I saw you, but I’m your _ <strike>_ dad’s sister _</strike>_aunt, Helena. Me, your uncle, and your grandmother have been trying to find and get into contact with you for years now with little to no progress.  
_ _ I don’t know anything of what Sonia told you growing up, if anything. After the funeral, she made it clear that you weren’t going to see us anymore. A few days later, when we showed up at the house, she called the police. A few weeks after that, we came back and the house was empty. We never found out where you moved and couldn’t get in touch via phone either, we assume she changed numbers. I’m not saying any of this to talk bad about her, I just want you to understand that we didn’t willingly disappear from your life. _ <strike>_ Honestly, if it were up to us, we would’ve gotten custody. _</strike>

Reading gets more difficult with darker memories, moments he didn’t know were the beginning of abuse. A kicked over For Sale sign, towers of cardboard boxes, temper tantrums that ended in doctor visits, summers spent trapped indoors, and a blue license plate traded for one with a chickadee on it. He wishes Sonia were alive just to scream at her, to demand to know what right she thought she had to tear him away like that. The letter nearly crumples in his curling fingers and he lets up, not wanting it damaged. How could she alienate him from his own family? From his _ dad’s _family nonetheless. She loved him enough to destroy herself when he died.

_ When we heard of her passing, we thought we could try to find you again. You’re under absolutely no obligation to reach out to us, but we would love to hear from you and, hopefully, meet face-to-face. If a drive to Albany is too difficult to swing, we’d be more than happy to come to you or pay for your trip. I don’t expect you to meet us while being completely in the dark about who we are so I’d love to fill in a few of the blanks, a lot has changed in the past seventeen years. I’m not sure where to start with the details, I’m sorry if it seems a little all over the place and if you remember most of this already.  
_ _ I still live in the big blue house, it’s just a lot more crowded now! With me and _ <strike>_ your cousin _</strike> _ my daughter Mavis, my brother Clarence and his kids have moved in with us, along with our mother Dottie. Our house is pretty chaotic with six people, two pitbull puppies, an old cat, and a cockatiel (as I’m sure you can imagine), but we got so used to it after all this time that we can’t live any other way. We’re a pretty eclectic family, a good warning is to expect a lot of larger-than-life personalities — our house is kind of like if you plucked out all the most eccentric TV family members and put them in one show. _

Through the shellshock shines more. Handpicked plums, stained glass windows of a woman holding water lilies, the unbalanced whir of a ceiling fan, dancing to showtunes on the tops of someone’s feet, and a tortoiseshell kitten with two different colored eyes. He’s more sure of the details now, able to find the emotions that went with them — not one of them is bad — and upset that he’d ever forgotten. How could he forget about an entire side of his family?

_ I’m still an anthropology professor at SUNY Albany, I think it’s been twenty-years but who can tell anymore? All my free time outside of work is usually spent gardening or writing music when I’m not keeping the house from succumbing to total anarchy. _ _  
_ _ The last time you saw Mavis, she hadn’t come out yet (you probably remember her from her birth name). She just graduated with a masters in sociology and has a job as an adjunct lined up. It’s super exciting, but she’s ready to abandon the whole thing when her band takes off (it’s called Nylon Glass! She says it’s on Spotify but I’m not totally sure how that one works, I just use CDs (I know I’m old)). They tour across the northeast during the summers and just started branching out further. _ _  
_ _ Clarence sold your dad’s auto-repair shop after he died, he tried to run it for a little while but, bless his heart, the man knows nothing about cars and I think the reminder was too painful. He owns a coffee shop downtown now and works there with his daughters — you haven’t met them before, he adopted them a few months after we last saw you. _ _  
_ _ Kai and Rhiannon are twins, one of his friends from deployment in South Korea got pregnant and knew he was looking to adopt so the timing was perfect! They’re damn near inseparable, which is cool for everyone else too because it leaves an extra room. We homeschool them because the schools here aren’t super accessible or welcoming (but that’s a whole ‘nother thing). It’s kind of a weird cycle of whoever’s free but, mostly, it’s Dottie that’s teaching. _ _  
_ _ She’s still retired, mostly helps arounds the house and writes reviews for food magazines. It’s a miracle if you can keep her off her feet for longer than a few hours, she’s been jumping from hobby to hobby in order to keep busy. The most recent one has been soap making and it’s everyone’s favorite. Who doesn’t love the kitchen smelling like a bunch of fragrances like cucumber lilac and cinnamon sugar?  
_ _ There’s a whole lot more, of course, but I’m not really sure how to end this and I’d feel awkward if I just gave you all our life stories (I promise I’m more articulate in person). Whether you choose to reach out or decide not to, we’re wishing you the best. I’m sorry again for kind of dropping this on you without any warning but I figured this was better than just randomly showing up. The phone number at the bottom is mine, you can call whenever you like and the pictures are yours to keep.  
_ _ Love,  
_ _ Helena _

He has to read over the rest a few times before it settles in through the screaming in his head but doesn’t have time to pay attention to the fourth flood of memories, scrambling to shake the envelope until the pictures fall out. There are three, each one hits harder than the last. His dad’s siblings and parents are standing outside of a house he doesn’t recognize; a beautiful garden, a bright yellow front-door, and gleaming smiles.

He can pick out Helena easily in the next, blue eyes like Beverly’s and her arms wrapped around a younger him at the upright piano while Clarence (he assumes) stands beside her; grass stains across his knees, a smile missing two front teeth, and the kitten perched on a bookshelf in the background.

And the last one? Eddie’s throat closes up. A deep, painful sense of loss buries him alive. He tries, desperately, to dig his way out and can’t. He only realizes he’s crying when his body forces him to breathe, gasping for air, and the tears roll down his cheeks when his eyes squeeze shut. He forgot what his dad looked like. Sonia refused to leave up any pictures of him. Chestnut hair, light eyes, and freckles. He never knew he looks just like him.

“Eds,” Richie says softly, “what’s wrong?” His voice almost startles him. He’s in the doorway, lingering, but Eddie doesn’t open his eyes. He holds the photo to his chest and swears, for a moment, that his heart feels warmer because it knows who it’s of. Richie looms closer, pretending not to notice the stuff sprawled out on the counter, and waits. Finally, he looks at him. He offers the picture, but doesn’t let go; he’s not ready for that yet. Confusion writes itself across Richie’s face.

“That’s my dad. I just got a letter from my aunt.” And the confusion quickly turns into rage.

“What the fuck did she say to you?”

“My dad’s sister.” And the rage disappears just as quickly as it came. Richie doesn’t know what to say, no idea how to handle it or help. Of all things to expect, this was at the bottom of the list — if it was on there at all. He opens his mouth to try and Eddie is pushing past him, mumbling that he needs air before slamming the sliding door shut behind him. He looks at the trees grown over the chain-link fence at first, but it turns into a blank stare that's focused on nothing at all. The picture stays pressed against his chest and his hand starts to ache from how much force he holds it there with, fearing an unrealistic instance where the wind will blow it into the pool and he'll lose it forever.

Sometimes, Eddie forgets. He knows he shouldn't blame himself for it, because he knows the effect trauma has on a person’s brain and the way it functions, but that does nothing to stop him. He forgets he had a father, he forgets his life hadn’t always been haunted by his mother, he forgets he wasn’t born in Derry. Sometimes, he’s okay with it; it’s hard to be sad if you can’t remember what you’re supposed to be sad about. But, right now, it slams into his chest harsh and unforgiving. He thinks it might impale him.

The grief and the anger and the misery are making up for lost time; he’s not even sure what hurts most, he only knows that it’s unbearable in a way that feels like his insides have been scooped out — hollow. His legs want to give out, wobbly and weak, but they straighten at the sound of a book being closed. He can barely find the source, eyes darting around the backyard before finding Went in a deck chair, ready to stand at the slightest word given.

“You okay, Eddie?”

“Yeah,” he says, wiping away the tears, “I’m fine.” And, of course, Went knows not to listen. He’s the kind of man that was meant to be a father — a damn good one too. Despite the bonds with Richie and Ren that come across more like friendships than anything else, he can shift into that parental state of mind at the drop of a hat. It doesn’t happen often, mostly because it doesn’t need to, but everyone’s memorized the tone of voice and signature expression he gets when he’s there to help. It’s a balance that Eddie can’t imagine many parents have found; Maggie is a good example of where that practice can fail, but Went has managed to perfect it.

“Did my son do something stupid?” Eddie shakes his head in answer, he’d laugh in any other situation. “Do you wanna talk about it?” When he nods, Went gets up and sits at the edge of the pool, pants rolled up and feet dipped into the cool water. He sits beside him, the picture still tightly held to his body. For a moment, their world is only two things: chirping crickets and chlorine.

“I just got a letter from my dad’s sister. I haven’t seen her for almost sixteen years and she wants to see me, so does my uncle and my grandma.” He almost rambles, he _ wants _to, but slows. He doesn’t talk to Went about personal things, he wonders what he even knows about his life before he started living here. “I kind of forgot I had family besides my mother and I have no fucking idea how they found me. She did a good job covering her tracks apparently, moved me hundreds of miles away and shit.”

“Probably hired a private investigator.” There isn’t time to think about how he feels about that idea, however likely it is. There isn’t time to think about how he feels about what else the PI could’ve found out and told them either, however unlikely that is.

“Now, it’s like I have a chance to change this negative outlook I got about having a family I haven’t hand-picked and I should take it,” Eddie says. He tries to sound sure but hesitates to keep talking, eyes falling to the rippled water. If Went’s overwhelmed by the amount of new information thrown at him, he doesn’t let on. Instead, he notices the unfinished thought.

“Do you _ want _to take it?”

“I should want to, right?” Eddie looks up at him and suddenly feels like a child, all too aware of the silver hairs hiding in a sea of brown and crows feet brought by a long life of laughter. There are moments, granted they’re rare, that he’ll feel like he has his shit together. He’s felt that way for weeks lately, with graduation on the horizon and, hopefully, an apartment to move into. Things like this, however, remind him that he’s barely an adult, completely winging it with whatever luck and knowledge he can manage.

“Should is a stupid word. There’s a lot of shoulds, you know that better than anyone.”

“Would you do it?”

“Probably,” Went shrugs, “but I don’t know how I’d feel if I had the same circumstances.” Eddie nods, this is where involuntary ignorance fails them. But, realistically, no one else could give him an answer that sounds right either. Maggie knows what she’s pieced together and Ren knows only what she remembers from Richie’s maundering, Beverly understands far too well and Bill holds too much resentment toward family (besides Georgie) to be fair. He almost thinks Stan could give him the perfect advice, but remembers he’s just as cautious as Mike and Ben; none of them would want Eddie to risk something harmful, especially if it’s because of their words. So, he tries to find his own answer.

“What if it were Guy? Like, if he called them and said he wanted to see them.” He can see Went’s light eyes flicker with something dark. Just from glancing, Eddie knows that he _ loathes _their biological father. He can’t imagine the name is brought up very often.

“It’s different than that.”

“How much?”

“I’ve seen the aftermath of what living with Guy was like.” He pauses, a heavy sigh expelled from his chest, and fear bubbles in the back of Eddie’s head. The last time Guy was brought up, he learned something he still wishes he hadn’t. He knows the likelihood of the same thing happening again. “Ren still jumps at the sound of a car door closing and sometimes, when Richie and I have it out, he looks at me like he’s scared I’ll hit him if he takes it too far. You don’t know if your family’s like that,” he says. And Eddie isn’t stupid, his mind makes the connection immediately. He decides just as fast that he can’t handle thinking about it or even processing it fully, so he pretends he didn’t pick up on it at all (even though they both know he did). He tells himself that if Richie wants to tell him about it one day, then he will.

“How do I know if they aren’t?”

“You don’t,” Went admits, “you just have to decide if it’s worth taking the risk and, if it is, know that you never have to see them again if they are.” His memories, however reliable or not, tell him that Helena and the rest of his dad’s family were good. But, he nods and finds the overgrown trees again. Went looks at him strangely, almost subtle enough to be missed. “Do you want them to be bad?”

“I dunno,” Eddie shrugs, “maybe.”

“Why?”

“If they’re not, all I’ll be able to think about is how much time with them I missed out on. If my mom hadn’t stolen me away, I could’ve been happier sooner.” Went laughs at him, a deep, chest-rooted laugh that he can hardly contain even though he doesn’t mean to let it out. He holds up a hand, as if to apologize, and Eddie knows it isn’t meant to be unkind.

“Jesus, kid, is that really what goes through your head all the time?” he asks. Eddie feels his face get hot; hearing someone react to his thought processes usually makes him realize how unhealthy they can be. “Regret and anger over things you can’t control only get you so far, at some point it’s better to let it go.” It isn’t new to him. He knows he shouldn’t be so angry all the time, he knows that most people aren’t. But, how easy it seems to be for Went to dismiss stolen opportunities _does_ surprise him.

“Aren’t you upset you didn’t meet Maggie earlier?”

“Not really, no.” This time, Eddie makes a face at him and he isn’t subtle. “That sounded way worse than I wanted it to.” Went almost chuckles again, but manages to stifle it down and explain. It’s another thing he likes about him, how he loves her so much and isn’t afraid to show it. Admittedly, the bar is on the floor, but the Losers seemed mystified the first time they saw Richie’s parents interact with each other. “She wouldn’t have been the same person and neither would I, Richie and Ren wouldn’t have been born, and we might not have spared a second glance at each other.”

“Soulmates always end up together.” They have to, he clings to that.

“We choose our soulmates, Eddie. There aren’t any givens, so you find someone you can trust with your heart and you choose to love them. You only end up being right or wrong. If you’re wrong, you choose again,” he says. Eddie’s shoulders drop as he contemplates it and he’s not sure he likes the idea. Fate has been the only thing he’s used to avoid the anger. His childhood may have damaged him in ways likely permanent, but he has other things — Richie, the Losers, and his life as it is now. Without fate, if things are all up to sheer chance and dumb luck, it’s so much easier to be wrathful for the injustice. Went doesn’t give him the chance to argue.

“If you spend your whole life waiting for a catalyst moment or focusing on what if’s and shoulds, you’re never going to be happy. It’s okay to be mad about getting dealt a shit hand, ‘cause God knows you were given one, but you don’t have to let it keep you from trying to get some better cards.” Somewhere is a hidden, unspoken message that they can almost hear._ You have better cards now. _It breaks ground for the heavier question, the one that burns in his chest and nearly lights the photo aflame.

“What if they don’t like me?” Eddie asks softly. Went’s head lifts up from the water fast upon hearing him and the heartbreak shines through. He just squeezes his shoulder, because that’s a separate conversation on its own and, right now, they don’t need to talk about how much this family loves him. They don’t need to talk about how they can’t imagine what their lives would be like without him or how grateful they are to have met him or how terrifyingly _ easy _ it is to adore him — they already know those things.

“Fuck ‘em then, you’ve lived this long without them.” And Eddie can barely hide a smile, because he understands what’s really meant. “I’ll head in, you’ve got a lot to think about.” He hums in agreement, staring at the water until he hears Went close the sliding door, and stays by the pool until the sun starts to set. Every so often, one of the Toziers will check on him but won’t ask him to talk, even though he can see how badly they want to.

Richie sits with him for a bit, head on his shoulder and hand in his until the mosquitos get to be too much for him to bear (they always did bite him more than anybody else). Maggie leaves a plate of food on the closest chair for him to eat and takes it in once it’s empty, reluctant to let him go without dessert even when he says he doesn’t want it. Ren offers a hug, silent when she walks up behind him and leans down, and the softest kiss on his collarbone; her hair, suddenly much longer than he remembers it being, falls into his face and smells like the plums from the New York summers he’d forgotten, but it looks like the rose bushes.

When the sky is dark, he goes inside.

He grabs the letter and the rest of the pictures from the counter, untouched from where he left them, and goes to their bedroom. The lights are off, he can tell from the space beneath the door, and opens it to see Richie lying in bed; the blue light of his laptop lights him up, an arm behind his head and glasses low on the bridge of his nose. He closes it halfway upon seeing Eddie, sitting up a little straighter.

“Hey,” Richie says softly. The letter and photos have a new place, shut inside the nightstand drawer, and Eddie sits on the edge of his side of the bed. He can feel the mattress shift when Richie moves, standing on his knees and shuffling toward him. His arms wrap around his torso, lips brush across his neck, and body presses against his back. Eddie feels so goddamn _ safe _ with that feeling.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he says. It’s almost a question, almost a plea. 

“That I love you.” Richie kisses his neck — gentle, innocent, lazy. “That I’m worried about you,” another kiss, “that you make me feel happy.” Eddie shuts his eyes, leaning into Richie’s touch, and breathes. He doesn’t let him go, only holds him; it sends chills down his spine. “What about you?” He squeezes his eyes tighter, sighing so quietly.

“A lot of stuff. I dunno if you wanna hear about it.”

“Of course I do,” he says, “if something’s bothering you, why wouldn’t I wanna help?” Another kiss. He keeps his lips frozen there, blistering hot on Eddie’s skin. He opens his eyes and tilts his head back, a small smile grows when Richie looms above with curls hanging down around his face like the branches of a weeping willow. His muscles ache and the breath pushes from his lungs.

Richie holds him tighter, like holding him could somehow fix everything. He thinks, maybe, that it can. So, he tells him everything and, to his credit, it only takes a few times of re-explaining to understand it all. Does he want to take a chance? Is it easier to just keep things as they are now? Will he hate himself if he never finds out for sure? It takes a few hours of talking to decide, but he goes to sleep with the intention of calling Helena in the morning.

★★★

The house is the same as in his memories, worn down and altered over time but mostly the same. The yellow front door is slightly faded, the mulch beds have different flowers, one of the mailbox’s googly eyes fell off, and the giant oak tree’s rope swing is gone. Eddie can still recognize it when the car slows at the curb and something in him sings — something long silenced. Richie can faintly hear it, a hand finding his shoulder, and waits until he’s ready to get out. To say that this weekend is a really big deal would be an understatement of grotesque amounts. He knows that, at the very least, it’ll feel strange.

The drive took a little more than two hours and Eddie’s nerves kept him in the passenger’s seat the whole way, busied and distracted by a final thesis paper that needed combing over (even if it didn’t _ really _keep him all that preoccupied). Calling Helena for the first time had left him an emotional wreck and he knows it was the same for her. Overjoyed rambling and shock that he reached out at all in the beginning, then everything under the sun once they were past the initial tension; the call lasted six hours and he knew, immediately, once it was over that he had to go to Albany. He planned the trip the next morning and has been talking to her almost every day since.

Now, though, parked outside of the big blue house, there’s an influx of things in his head. Most of them are worries. Will they like him? Will they still not mind if Richie’s here too? Will they figure out he’s gay? Will they care if they do? Do they already know? Hornets, not butterflies, rage in his stomach — the nest fell from his throat and split open there. Richie hears the buzzing too, it overwhelms the singing.

“Hey, it’ll be alright,” he says softly. He paints patterns into the back of Eddie’s hand with his thumb, nonsensical and reassuring. “It’s the same as talking on the phone except you can look at ‘em.” They’d tried getting Helena to figure out how Skype works, even had Mavis help, but to no avail.

“I know.”

“Then, why do you look like you’re gonna puke?”

“‘Cause I might.” He shuts off the radio, a song from Mavis’ band that he hasn’t been able to stop listening to, and makes himself get out of the car. Richie follows close behind, helping him grab their bag from the trunk. The wheels catch on the uneven blocks of the walkway, clattering and rattling with each quick step closer to the door. The sun warms their backs, only half-hidden under the porch awning, while a sudden puff of smoke catches their attention. They look over to find one of Clarence’s twins, sitting on a bench with half a blunt between her fingers, and her mouth almost drops open.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know you’d be here this fast.” She puts it out in the ashtray beside her, already used, and grabs the crutches leaning against the side of the house to stand. Every nerve in his body feels electrified, twitching and squirming the same way they would over the phone calls. He hasn’t spoken to the others yet.

“Don’t worry about it, we smoke all the time,” Richie says. Eddie can tell by the way he stands that he doesn’t know what to say, how desperately he wants to make a good first impression.

“She asks me to smoke outside when we’ve got guests,” she shrugs, “now, I don’t have to guess that _ you're _ my cousin, but are you cool with hugs?” She pauses before stepping any closer, looking to Eddie, and her necklaces jingle with the movement. Her eyes are red and heavy, bright yellow eyeshadow on the lids that glows on her brown skin; it matches the blonde highlights in her afro and the color of the hearing aid in her left ear. She smiles when Eddie nods and the color of her braces is yellow too. If he couldn’t tell what her favorite color was before, he can tell when he smells her perfume — one that Beverly loves called Sunflower Fields.

“I hate that I have to ask, but—”

“Rhiannon,” she says. Eddie can feel his face get hot, but she doesn’t miss a beat. “You might wanna ring the doorbell, they need some warning to keep the dogs from running out the door. I’m gonna stay for a bit.” The doorbell incites a chorus of barking and nails scratching along the floor. The dogs greet them first, jumping and pressing their noses against the glass to see them. This, immediately, causes Richie to fall in love; he drops to his knees to be at their eye-level and his voice goes to the highest octave it has, cooing over how adorable they are.

Eddie can hear voices before it opens. Asking for someone to keep the dogs from bolting out the door and excitedly announcing that they must be here, the knob turns and he sees Helena in the doorway. His heart stops, briefly, before starting up the fastest he’s ever felt it. Her eyes shine upon looking at him, he’s not sure if it’s the sun or the tears. She looks almost exactly the same as the picture she sent with the letter — blue eyes, freckles, and brown hair with highlights. The difference is in her clothes, replacing the 90s-looking denim suit with something that seems straight out of the Summer of Love.

She hugs him in a way that makes him feel precious, arms wrapped tight and a hand on the back of his head as if she were cradling a child, and he can feel her shaking. If the music from the kitchen weren’t so loud, he could probably hear her breathing slowly become less uneven or the words mumbled into his shoulder. He doesn’t have to hear them to know what they are. She’s happy to see him.

“Are you gonna let them in or does Kai have to wrangle Dennis and Dumpling for the rest of the night?” a voice teases. And, just like that, where Richie originally stood to the side, not wanting to interrupt or intrude, has officially ended.

_ “Dennis and Dumpling?” _he yells, his face lighting up.

“I bet they’re chomping at the bit to meet you. If you let them, they’ll lick you to death.” Helena rolls her eyes and gestures for them to come inside. Once the door is shut, Richie sits down right in front of the dogs and they do, in fact, try to lick him to death (not that he minds). Eddie’s met with something different, eyes wide at a sight overwhelming. The hallway filled with family photos is actually the entryway, some evidence for anyone new that the people who live here are happy to. Beyond the entryway is a bustling city and he doesn’t know what to focus on first. Helena doesn’t make him decide.

There’s a small crowd of people, if he can call it a crowd, lingering on the edges of the living room and waiting to meet him. He can recognize Kai first, she looks just like her sister but with her head shaved and clothes like Kurt Cobain, and knows Mavis from the album covers he’s seen a good hundred times in the past two weeks; Clarence looks just like every other Kaspbrak, only without the freckles, and Dottie reacts the strongest to seeing him standing a few feet away.

She says something soft, voice breaking, that he can’t hear but seems to affect the ones who can. Her arms reach out before she can muster up any more words and Eddie’s cocooned in them without a second thought. He can feel the others join in, at least some, and isn’t sure what to do. But, the tension erodes after awkward introductions and even more so after dinner. Richie stays on the sidelines when he can, but no one lets him for very long. He’s back to his normal self, albeit a bit more filtered, and it makes the underlying anxiety in Eddie’s mind lay low. The last of it is gone by the time Clarence suggests playing Texas Hold ‘Em and pouring a glass of wine (they’d bought Eddie’s favorite, overhearing from Richie during a call on speaker).

“I hope you guys like losing ‘cause Eddie kicks ass in pretty much every card game known to man,” Richie laughs, reaching over to pinch Eddie’s cheek only to get swatted away. Rhiannon's eyebrows raise, unnoticed. She nudges her sister with her elbow and shoots her a look, grinning when Kai recognizes what she wants her to. Nobody else notices, but there’s something weird in the way they look at Eddie.

“He’s just exaggerating,” he starts to say, “but we can play something else if—”

“No, it’s not that,” Helena says, a bittersweet smile, “you’re just so much like your dad.” It makes his entire body go slack, shoulders dropping and expression disappearing. He stares, unsure of what to say, and the shift in the room is palpable. A warm, fuzzy feeling that rushes toward each corner, it floods any empty space.

“Could you…tell me about him? I don’t remember him much, not apart from pictures.” He can’t help the gentleness of his voice, a miracle that he could even use it. Everything feels _ more. _There’s not a detail he can’t focus on, hyperalert and aware of so much. But, it’s not bad. It’s not in the way he’s used to. So, cards and wine turn into stories. He’s more like him than he thought — a liking to swing jazz, a hatred of beer, a knack for winning card games, and a habit of rambling when emotions run high. He’s not sure what he thought he’d hear and it’s not that, but Helena’s last remark hits him the hardest.

“He would’ve been so proud of you, Eddie.” She reaches for his hand across the table and he can hardly take it, fingers numb and twitching on their own freewill. The singing comes back, loud enough for everyone — the angelic choir, the lilting orchestra, the sound of hearing something he never knew he needed to. To the rest, those who didn’t know Frank or were too young to properly remember, it feels like they’re intruding on something sacred. Richie, more than anyone else, is terrified of spoiling it. But, there’s something looming underneath. It’s a nagging, filthy question that forces its way to Eddie’s lips before a second thought can stop him from asking.

“Do you think he would’ve cared that I’m gay?” He knows how horrible it sounds the second he hears it, but he’s _ sure _when he sees their reactions. Helena doesn’t let go of his hand. She acts like she doesn’t know what it implies about his mother, what she’d already assumed, and doesn’t let go of his hand.

“He adored you, nothing would’ve changed that.” And he knows he doesn’t have to ask, but…

“Do you guys care?” She still doesn’t let go of his hand.

“Dude, no way,” Kai blurts out, unable to take the seriousness of the situation any longer. Despite the quick, scolding glare that Mavis sends her way, she agrees.

“I think we have one of each letter at this table already except the L. Clarence’s gay, mom’s bi, and I’m trans.”

“No, you’ve got the L. I’m gay too,” Rhiannon says. Her dad tilts his head, as if this is the first he’s hearing of it, but doesn’t react beyond that.

“Yeah, see? No one cares,” Mavis shrugs. It opens the table for all the questions they’ve been itching to ask — how long he and Richie have been together, how they met, how long they’ve been living together. It’s beautiful, albeit blurry. Eddie only realizes the moment’s passed when it’s hours later, when Helena is showing them where their room is. She pulls him aside before he turns in for the night.

“I’ve been wanting to give you this, I couldn’t tell when was a good time but, I figured you’d want to be alone when you read it.” She takes something from her back pocket and hands it to him. It’s an envelope with his name on it, handwritten, and he knows it’s old from the faded color. “Your dad wrote it before he died and asked me to give it to Sonia for you, but I didn’t trust her to keep it after what happened. I hope you can forgive me.”

“She never would’ve given it to me,” he says, trying to pretend he hasn’t just been steamrolled over by an emotional freight train, “it never would’ve seen the light of day.” She can see right through him, already backing away toward the steps. He doesn’t know how to feel, both in variety and capacity. If he feels, and he’s not sure that he does, it must be an amigdalation of things. Helena leaves him for the night with a mention of a huge breakfast, but knows that’s not what’s important. His brain is on autopilot again.

He sits on the bed still made, careful when opening the envelope. It’s terrifying, the slightest rip would be a consequence he can’t handle. But, it doesn’t rip. The sealing is so old, it practically opens itself. He can hear Richie brushing his teeth in the bathroom for a second, a song mumbled and garbled from a mouth full of toothpaste, then it’s gone; after reading the first sentence, there’s nothing that could tear his attention away.

It’s the hardest he’s ever cried and it’s hard to stop, because he wants to cry for so many things — how his childhood could’ve been, the way Sonia stole him away, the years lost and how he could’ve had this family sooner. But, mostly, he cries for his dad.

“Thank fuckin’ god they know we’re together,” Richie says, shutting the door behind him, “now I don’t have to keep my hands off—” He sees the tears and stops; he’s by his side before he can blink, arms wrapped around his torso and chin rested in the crook of his neck. He doesn’t read over his shoulder, but waits for him to say what it is. It takes a while. Eddie rereads the letter a good twenty times and Richie holds him until the want to cry disappears.

★★★

Eddie (or Edward or Ed, if you go by one of those now),  
There’s so many things I want to say. Sometimes I think I should be writing a book instead. Maybe I will, if I have the time or energy. We should’ve been able to have a lifetime to fit it all. For now, this is it and the idea of trying to cram it into one letter feels ridiculous, but I have to trust your mom to cover the bases that I can’t.  
It’s okay to be sad.  
I hope I’m not the only one who will tell you that, but you don’t need to hear me talk about how unfair this is. We all know and you know more than anybody else. I’d give most anything to take your pain away. I’d give even more to have more time with you, even if it were just a few months. You mean the world to me. I tried to show it whenever I could, say it whenever I could, prove it whenever I could. I don’t know if it was ever enough or if you’ll remember, but I hope it is and I hope you do. However long my life could’ve been, without you it would have been worthless.  
It’s okay to be angry.  
There will be a lot of moments where you’ll remember I’m not here — big moments, like your birthdays or graduation or wedding and small moments, like recitals or parent-teacher conferences. You’re allowed to be mad about it, even furious. Your mind will jump to this when people tell you life isn’t fair and you’ll resent it. People will look at you with pity when they find out and you’ll resent that. I understand. I resent it too.  
It’s okay to be confused.  
People deal with pain differently. There is no guidebook or magic spell to fix this. There is nothing to tell you how to get through this or when this will end. It’ll be ongoing, there’s no nice way to say that, and some days will be worse than others. No one is expecting you to understand all the time, don’t put pressure on yourself to try. Mess up, make ridiculous mistakes, do stupid things — it’s alright, you’ll learn from it. I know that you can.  
It’s okay to be overwhelmed.  
Life is scary. Things like this happen a lot and it can feel like there’s no time to catch your breath. There will be moments where it’ll be too much — unbearable ones. But, despite all that, life can still be beautiful. It’s important not to let the bad outshine the good, no matter the ratio. You’ll survive everything you think you won’t, you just need to learn how to manage it.  
It’s okay to be happy.  
I hope that, even without me, you can live in the moment and feel content. You don’t have to be guilty for not being upset all the time. It’s your life and you should live it to the fullest. All I want is for you to be happy, Eddie. Whatever way you think that is, whatever way you can, I want you to be happy. I’ll love you no matter who you end up being, no matter what you end up doing, no matter where you end up living, no matter who you end up loving. If you’re happy, it means you won. That’s all that matters.  
I love you always,  
Dad

P.S. Some miscellaneous advice:  
You can eat whatever you want if you do the amount of exercise it’d take to burn it off. If you want to tell someone something but you’re scared to say it, just do it. Cursing at the top of your lungs when you stub your toe is a rite of passage. Safe sex is great sex. Learn as many languages as you can, the same goes for instruments. Keep a change of clothes, a blanket, and an emergency kit in your car at all times. If you’re gonna bail, do it early on. If you have to do something, do it now — you’ll thank yourself later. Always wear sunscreen...ALWAYS. There is at least one book in the world that will change your life, keep reading until you find it. Take a self-defense class at least once in your life. Please don’t do drugs. Skipping class every so often isn’t the end of the world. Don’t forget to remind the people you love how much they mean to you. Take pictures of everything, you’ll want them when you’re old.


End file.
